UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


CHARACTERISTICS 


"'ISN'T  SHE  NOBLE-LOOKING?'" 


Butbor's  definitive  EOitton 

CHARACTERISTICS 
I 

BY 

S.  WEIR   MITCHELL,  M.D. 

LL.D.    HARVARD    AND    EDINBURGH 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1905 


Copyright.  1891.  1892,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


"PS 


\305 


CHARACTERISTICS 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


HIS  book  is  a  broken  record  of  por- 
tions of  the  lives  of  certain  friends 
of  mine,  and  of  what  I,  Owen  North, 
physician,  have  seen  and  heard.  My 
people,  who  were  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  came  from  Wales,  and  were 
with  Penn  in  the  Welcome,  but  had  lapsed  from  grace 
and  followed  the  religious  guidance  of  Hicks.  I  was 
further  emancipated  by  the  study  of  medicine,  which 
I  took  to  because  it  interested  me  and  not  of  necessity, 
since  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  I  was  a  man  of  ample 
means,  free  to  do  as  I  liked.  After  a  year  of  hospital 
work,  and  three  years  of  added  study  in  Europe,  I  came 
home  to  settle  in  my  native  city. 

Whatever  value  this  irregular  account  of  myself  and 
my  friends  may  have  is  due  to  the  care  with  which  I 
have  watched  the  developmental  growth  of  character. 
I  like,  therefore,  to  say  at  the  outset  what  I  appear  to 
myself  to  have  been — leaving  the  reader  who  likes  to 
follow  me  to  learn  for  himself  what  life  did  to  foster 
the  good  or  ill  that  was  mine  by  nature.  In  early 


2  CHARACTERISTICS. 

manhood  I  was  shy,  reserved,  and  self-conscious.  Al- 
ways ambitious,  and  disliking  failure,  my  youth  did 
not  supply  me  with  such  other  competence  of  motives 
as  to  urge  me  to  success  in  consecutive  study.  What 
I  liked  to  do  I  did  fairly  well  When  older  I  found 
that  the  power  to  do  best  what  I  enjoyed  doing  led  at 
last  to  the  easier  doing  of  whatever  I  willed  to  do.  I 
cannot  remember  that  as  a  boy  any  intellectual  work 
had  for  me  the  smallest  attraction.  In  those  days  it 
was  thought  in  my  native  city  not  quite  reputable  to 
have  no  distinct  occupation  in  life,  and  under  this 
influence  I  began  to  study  medicine.  As  I  became  in- 
creasingly interested  in  the  studies  of  the  profession  I 
had  chosen,  I  was  curiously  surprised  to  find  that  the 
capacity  to  concentrate  my  thoughts,  which  I  never 
had  in  youth,  rapidly  grew ;  in  fact  I  developed  later 
than  most  men.  About  the  time  I  began  to  like  scien- 
tific study  I  lost  for  life  the  sense  of  ennui  which  had 
been  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  childhood,  and  too, 
with  success,  became  quietly  sure  of  myself  and  more 
and  more  capable  of  sustained  effort.  Finally  my 
long  absence  abroad  enabled  me  usefully  to  escape 
from  many  of  the  narrowing  associations  of  my  youth, 
and  to  enter  on  life  untrammeled.  I  found,  indeed, 
as  I  grew  older,  that  the  comrades  of  my  youth  were 
no  longer  such.  I  had  moved  away  from  them ;  but 
friendly  time  brought  others  whom  I  learned  to  love 
better  and  with  more  reason.  It  is  only  needful  to 
,  add  that  I  succeeded  in  my  profession,  and  at  the  out- 
break of  the  great  civil  war  was  in  an  enviable  posi- 
'  tion,  having  a  practice  far  beyond  what  would  have 
been  possible  in  Europe  at  my  time  of  life. 


CHAEACTEKISTICS.  3 

The  call  of  war  stirred  me  in  many  ways.  My  peo- 
ple had  been  Friends  from  the  day  of  their  landing  in 
America,  but  I  myself  had  ceased  to  be,  like  them, 
troubled  with  scruples  as  to  war.  I  only  hesitated  as 
to  how  best  I  could  serve  my  country.  That  in  some 
way  I  must  do  this  was  clear  to  me.  As  to  slavery  I 
had  been  little  disturbed  j  it  was  a  gangrene  sure  in 
time  to  die  of  its  own  accursedness.  But  the  thought 
of  a  dismembered  land,  and,  above  all,  the  final  insult 
of  Sumter,  settled  for  me,  as  it  did  for  thousands,  what 
I  ought  to  do. 

I  soon  saw  that  as  a  surgeon  I  could  be  of  most  use. 
I  was,  as  the  world  goes,  rich,  and  had  no  need  to 
consider  the  future.  Accordingly  I  gave  up  all  my 
appointments,  and  entered  the  service  as  an  assistant 
surgeon  in  the  regular  army.  Of  this  life  I  mean  to 
say  little. 

I  could  wish  that  some  one  would  fitly  record  the 
immense  services  of  my  profession  during  the  great 
war,  but  this  is  not  the  place  to  do  so ;  and  I  content 
myself  with  the  merely  personal  statement  that  I  was 
almost  incessantly  occupied  with  field  duty.  This 
open-air  life  gave  me  the  physical  vigor  I  somewhat 
lacked ;  and  this  I  saw  occur  in  many  others.  Despite 
5  the  cripples  made  by  war,  and  those  who  came  out  of 
I  it  diseased,  I  am  disposed  to  think  that  the  survivors 
1  returned  to  civil  life  with,  on  the  whole,  a  larger  cap- 
ital of  available  energy  than  the  like  number  would 
have  possessed  had  there  been  no  contest.  I  was  soon 
to  learn  in  person  how  valuable  was  this  toughening 
process. 

We  were  lying  before  Petersburg,  very  weary  of  the 


4  CHARACTERISTICS. 

siege,  with  its  many  failures.  An  attack  at  dawn  on 
the  left  flank  of  Lee's  extending  lines  necessitated  the 
usual  ambulance  service,  and  for  this  I  was  detailed. 
The  effort  on  our  part  failed,  and  the  return  attack 
cut  off  for  a  time  my  ambulance  party  and  a  number 
of  wounded.  We  were  in  a  rather  dense  wood,  and 
remained  unperceived  until  toward  evening ;  nor  was 
it  prudent  to  attempt  escape.  The  firing  had  been  dis- 
tant and  irregular  most  of  the  day,  and  near  dark, 
hearing  the  groans  of  wounded  men  somewhat  nearer 
to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  I  took  a  sergeant  and  two 
men,  and  went  in  search  of  them.  There  were  many 
dead,  and,  lying  among  them,  three  more  or  less  badly 
hurt;  one  of  these  needed  immediate  amputation  of 
an  arm,  and  we  set  about  this  at  once.  Meanwhile  a 
sharp  firing  broke  out  on  the  right ;  the  balls  began  to 
fly  over  us  so  that  the  twigs  fell  about  us  from  the 
trees.  Rarely  does  a  man  have  to  operate  under  fire. 
This  time  it  fell  upon  me  to  do  so,  and  as  I  began  my 
assistant  suddenly  cried  out,  "It  is  no  use,  doctor." 
A  sharp  convulsion  shook  the  body  of  the  wounded 
man,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  that  a  bullet  had  gone 
through  his  head.  A  moment  later  I  felt  a  blow  on 
the  back  of  my  neck,  and  lost  consciousness. 

I  cannot  say  how  long  I  remained  insensible.  By 
degrees  I  began  to  see  the  trees,  the  moon,  and  the 
swift  hurry  of  clouds  across  its  brightness.  I  faintly 
remember  that  at  first  I  connected  their  quick  motion 
with  retreat  and  failure,  and  was  hurt  with  the  shame 
of  it.  Then  again  I  lost  it  all,  and  for  a  time — how 
long  I  do  not  know — rose  to  brief  spells  of  dream- 
haunted  consciousness.  The  sadness  of  dawn  was  in 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  5 

the  sky  before  I  was  fully  myself.  I  heard  the  moan 
of  wounded  men,  and  knew  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
take  care  of  them.  I  tried  to  rise,  and  could  not ;  my 
arms  and  legs  were  alike  motionless.  I  made  an  im- 
mense effort,  and  knew  that  it  was  in  vain.  I  was  also 
paralyzed  as  to  sensation,  and  could  not  feel  that  I> 
touched  the  ground.  But  about  my  neck  I  felt  the 
blood  dried  stiff  in  my  collar.  I  must,  however,  have 
been  still  bleeding  freely,  for  again  I  lost  myself  while 
divided  between  wonder  and  horror  at  my  state. 

At  about  sunrise  I  was  awakened  by  familiar  voices, 
and  presently  was  rolled  over  and  inspected  by  a  hos- 
pital steward  and  one  of  my  brother  surgeons,  to 
whom  were  soon  added  two  line  officers.  I  could  not 
speak,  but  could  hear  more  and  more  easily  as  they 
lifted  me  to  a  stretcher  and  made  my  obituary  in  a 
few  brief  and  not  altogether  eulogistic  phrases,  with  a 
final  remark  by  a  captain  that  "  He  treated  me  at  Cold 
Harbor  and  got  me  a  long  sick-leave,  and  gave  derned 
little  medicine,  too." 

One  man  remarked,  "Good  fellow,  but  a  dreamy 
sort  of  a  cuss."  And  thus,  having  died  for  my  coun- 
try, and  heard  its  opinion  of  me  in  little,  I  came  to 
myself.  As  my  bearers  trudged  along  I  had  first  a 
misty  recognition  of  the  fun  of  it,  then  curiosity  as  to 
where  I  was  hit,  but  at  length  pain  in  my  neck  from 
the  to-and-fro  roll  of  the  stretcher  as  my  bearers, 
keeping  step  from  habit,  moved  toward  camp. 

At  last  I  was  able  to  say,  "  Break  step.  I  'm  not 
dead." 

"  By  George !  The  doctor  's  alive ! "  exclaimed  one 
of  my  aids,  and  so,  after  this  excursion  out  of  my  wits, 


6  CHARACTERISTICS. 

I  got  into  a  good  tent  and,  after  a  more  thorough  ex- 
amination, was  sent  home  to  die. 

A  bullet  had  passed  through  the  muscles  at  the  back 
of  my  neck  and  paralyzed  the  spinal  column  without 
directly  wounding  it.  For  several  months  I  lay  quite 
powerless,  all  that  there  was  of  me  within  control  of 
my  will  being  the  head  and  its  contents.  I  could  not 
stir  arm  or  leg;  I  even  spoke  with  difficulty;  and 
would  awake  gasping  for  breath  at  night,  because 
my  will  was  more  or  less  needed  to  keep  my  chest  in 
motion. 

I  was  for  weeks,  as  I  well  knew,  on  the  margin  of 
another  world,  and  absolutely  clear  in  mind  to  consider 
the  peril  I  had  no  wish  to  die,  despite  my  horrible 
state,  for  I  had  no  pain,  and  it  is  pain  which  makes 
the  ill  man  indifferent  to  living.  Neither  did  the 
nearness  of  death  alarm  me.  I  remember  that  I  con- 
cluded that  the  naturalness  of  death  must  be  strongly 
set  in  our  instinctive  being,  because,  although  I  have 
seen  many  wounded  or  ill  men  die  slowly  without 
suffering,  and  fully  possessed  of  reason,  obvious  fear 
of  death,  when  death  is  near,  scarcely  exists,  and  most 
men,  under  these  conditions,  seem  to  await  their  fate 
with  calmness.  In  fact,  I  can  recall  only  one  case 
where  a  man,  conscious  of  death  at  hand,  showed  in- 
tensity of  fear. 

I  lay  at  rest,  if  rest  it  can  be  called,  in  my  own 
rooms,  and  had  all  that  means  could  give  me.  Friends 
I  had  too,  for  I  have  a  talent  for  friendship,  and  these 
came  and  sat  with  me  or  read  to  me.  I  remember, 
however,  that  some  who  were  very  dear  to  me  in 
health  did  not  seem  to  fit  into  my  new  conditions  of 


CHARACTERISTICS.  7 

life,  and  that  in  my  helplessness  the  women  whom  I 
was  able  to  see  were  always  the  more  acceptable  visit- 
ors. I  suspect  that  at  this  time  I  must  have  been  very 
sensitive.  Certain  persons  depressed  me ;  I  could  not 
easily  say  why  others  soothed.  Now  and  then  came 
some  one  who  made  me  feel  as  though  I  had  taken  a 
strong  tonic. 

This  priceless  gift  nature  has  given  only  to  a  few. 
It  cannot  be  acquired;  no  imitation  of  it  succeeds; 
nor  is  its  quality  easy  of  analysis.  It  is  not  manner, 
neither  is  it  dependent  on  a  sanguine  temperament,  as 
one  might  fancy.  Nor  is  it  a  part  of  such  mere  un- 
thinking manners  as  make  some  men  always  willing 
to  predict  success.  One  comes  here  to  the  question  of 
professional  manners,  a  delicate  matter  of  which  I 
thought  a  good  deal  as  I  became  a  more  and  more 
sensitive  human  instrument.  There  is  no  place  where 
good  breeding  has  so  sweet  a  chance  as  at  the  bedside. 
There  are  many  substitutes,  but  the  sick  man  is  a 
shrewd  detective,  and  soon  or  late  gets  at  the  true  man 
inside  of  the  doctor. 

I  know,  alas !  of  men  who  possess  cheap  manufact- 
ured manners  adapted,  as  they  believe,  to  the  wants 
of  "the  sick-room" — a  term  I  loathe.  According  to 
the  man  and  his  temperament  do  these  manners  vary, 
and  represent  sympathetic  cheerf  ulness  or  sympathetic 
gloom.  They  have,  I  know,  their  successes  and  their 
commercial  value,  and  may  be  of  such  skilful  make  as 
to  deceive  for  a  time  even  clever  women,  which  is  say- 
ing a  great  deal  for  the  manufacturer.  Then  comes 
the  rarer  man  who  is  naturally  tender  in  his  contact 
with  the  sick,  and  who  is  by  good  fortune  full  of  edu- 
2 


8  CHARACTERISTICS. 

cated  tact.  He  has  the  dramatic  quality  of  instinctive 
sympathy,  and,  above  all,  knows  how  to  control  it.  If 
he  has  directness  of  character  too,  although  he  may 
make  mistakes  (as  who  does  not  ?),  he  will  be,  on  the 
whole,  the  best  adviser  for  the  sick,  and  the  complete- 
ness of  his  values  will  depend  upon  mental  qualities 
which  he  may  or  may  not  possess  in  large  amount. 

But  over  and  above  all  this  there  is,  as  I  have  urged, 
some  mystery  in  the  way  in  which  certain  men  refresh 
the  patient  with  their  presence.  I  fancy  that  every 
doctor  who  has  this  power — and  sooner  or  later  he  is 
sure  to  know  that  he  has  it — also  learns  that  there  are 
days  when  he  has  it  not.  It  is  in  part  a  question  of 
his  own  physical  state;  at  times  the  virtue  has  gone 
out  of  him. 

The  gift  is  not  confined  to  men.  One  middle-aged 
woman  had  it  for  me  when  I  lay  helpless  in  my  palsied 
state.  She  was  a  person  so  simple,  so  direct,  so  easily 
sure  to  do  and  so  certain  to  abide  by  the  right  thing, 
that  to  unthinking  people  she  may  have  appeared  to 
be  commonplace.  An  angelic  form  of  good  sense 
dominated  by  tenderness  underlay  the  positiveness  of 
her  character  and  was  a  part  of  her  nature.  More- 
over, she  possessed  also  sense  of  humor,  that  gentlest 
helpmate  in  life.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  cre- 
atively humorous;  she  was  only  appreciatively  and 
apprehensively  humorous. 

I  had  a  rather  grim  but  most  able  surgeon.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  have  a  death-certificate  ready  in  his 
pocket.  He  came,  asked  questions,  examined  me  as  if 
I  were  a  machine,  and  was  too  absorbed  in  the  phys- 
ical me  to  think  about  that  other  me  whose  tentacula  he 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  9 

knocked  about  without  mercy,  or  without  knowledge 
that  tenderness  was  needed.  Our  consultant  was  a 
physician  with  acquired  manners.  He  always  agreed 
with  what  I  said,  and  was  what  I  call  aggressively 
gentle ;  so  that  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  ever  saying  with 
calm  self -approval,  "  See  how  gentle  I  am."  I  am  told 
that  with  women  he  was  delightfully  positive,  and  I 
think  this  may  have  been  true,  but  he  was  incapable  of 
being  firm  with  the  obstinate.  His  formulas  distressed 
me,  and  were  many.  He  was  apt  to  say,  as  he  entered 
my  room,  "  Well,  and  how  are  we  to-day  ? "  And  this 
I  hated,  because  I  once  knew  a  sallow  undertaker  who, 
in  the  same  fashion,  used  to  associate  himself  with  the 
corpse,  and  comfort  the  living  with  the  phrase,  "  We 
are  looking  quite  natural  to-day." 

My  soft-mannered  and  mellifluous  doctor  who 
thought  well  of  himself  was  nevertheless  a  most  in- 
telligent physician  j  but  some  people  possess  no  mirror 
for  social  conduct,  and  the  court  fool,  who  tells  men 
the  truth,  is  out  of  fashion.  He  went  along  in  lif e  not 
knowing  how  absurd  he  was  at  times.  To  have  known 
would  have  lessened  his  usefulness.  Self -ignorance  is 
sometimes  an  essential  condition  of  utility. 

My  good  little  woman  friend  supplied  me  with  what 

my  doctors  did  not,  and  to  this  day  I  cannot  tell  how 

she  did  it.    Despite,  however,  her  too  rare  visits,  and 

(those  of  others  who  were  less  helpful,  I  had  a  horrible 

i  amount  of  time  on  my  hands.     Much  reading  wearied 

'  me,  and  so  I  lay  imprisoned  within  the  limits  of  my 

memories,  or  took  a  curious  interest  in  the  minutiae  of 

the  little  life  or  action  I  could  see  in  my  room  or 

through  my  windows.    I  watched  for  long  months  the 


10  CHARACTERISTICS. 

leaves  come  and  flourish  and  depart  from  a  tree  (a 
horse-chestnut  across  the  street),  and  saw  its  varnished 
buds  unfold  to  queer  insect  shapes  and  then  spread 
out  into  green  tents.  The  spider  which  spun  on  my 
window-pane  I  would  not  allow  to  be  disturbed,  and 
even  the  flies  were  sources  of  interest.  Far  away  were 
two  weathercocks ;  one  was  too  motionlessly  conserva- 
tive to  stir  with  the  breeze,  but  now  and  then,  when 
the  wind  was  east,  it  was  correct.  It  seemed  to  me 
like  the  man  with  one  unchanging  opinion,  and  with 
whom  the  world  comes  some  day  to  agree.  The  other 
cock  was  an  honest,  mutable  fellow,  and  warned  me 
that  a  norther  was  on  the  way  to  torment  me,  as  it 
always  did,  with  a  horrible  sense  of  futile  restlessness. 
I  used  to  lie  and  wonder  whether  the  cock  was  chosen 
for  a  sign  of  changeful  winds  because  it  was  a  re- 
minder to  the  unstable  Peter.  But  these  trifles  are  of 
the  intimate  life  of  chronic  sickness,  and  perhaps  are 
of  little  interest  to  the  thoughtless  who  are  well. 

The  man  thus  imprisoned  within  himself  recovers 
by  effort  a  vast  amount  of  memorial  property  pre- 
sumed to  have  been  lost.  If  I  shut  my  eyes  and  lay 
still,  as,  indeed,  I  had  to  do,  and  then  seized  firmly  on 
some  remembrance  of  verse  or  prose  or  events,  by  de- 
grees it  seemed  to  aggregate  other  memories  long  for- 
gotten. It  was  like  a  process  of  crystallization — to 
stir  up  the  fluid  is  apt  to  disturb  the  formative  action. 
If  I  stopped  to  think,  compare,  and  conclude,  I  found 
that  I  interfered  with  the  process  of  accumulative 
recollection.  My  favorite  amusement  was  to  recall 
men  I  had  known,  and  to  construct  for  them  in  my 
mind  characters  out  of  what  I  had  seen  or  heard  of 


CHARACTERISTICS.  11 

them  under  the  varying  conditions  of  camp,  battle,  or 
wounds.  This  would  lead  me  to  anticipate  what  their 
future  lives  would  be  and  how  in  certain  crises  of  ex- 
istence they  might  act.  I  did  this  also  for  myself  over 
and  over,  until  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  be  sure  of 
my  precise  conduct  under  any  and  almost  every  variety 
of  circumstances.  Some  of  the  insights  I  thus  won  by 
these  excursions  into  the  puzzle-land  of  character  used 
to  startle  me  at  times,  because  it  seemed  as  though  the 
concentration  and  intensity  of  attention  imposed  upon 
me  by  my  state  enabled  me,  from  the  memory  of  a 
single  interview  or  incident,  to  work  out  easily  the 
whole  characteristics  of  a  man.  This  power  did  not 
continue  in  as  full  force  when  my  conditions  of  life 
were  altered.  What  it  left  with  me  was  an  unusual 
fondness  for  the  study  of  men  and  women,  and  this  I 
take  to  be  a  rare  taste,  because  although  people  make 
guesses  at  character,  and  novelists  and  dramatists  are 
presumed  to  study  it  for  a  purpose,  and  some  men  of 
affairs  have  an  almost  instinctive  appreciation  of  what 
a  man  in  contact  with  a  given  matter  will  do,  the 
tendency  to  study  character  for  its  own  sake  from  a 
naturalist's  point  of  view  is  most  uncommon.  In  fact, 
too,  the  business-man's  working  knowledge  of  char- 
acter  and  the  writer's  are  distinct,  says  George  Eliot ; 
the  former  cannot  put  in  words  what  he  uses  any  more 
than  the  latter  can  use  in  the  give  and  take  of  life 
what  he  can  so  well  put  on  paper. 

I  look  back  with  surprise  at  the  months  I  passed  as 
a  crippled  man,  my  head  alone  alive.  My  cheerfulness 
was  due  to  temperament,  and  also  to  what  I  may  call 
the  temperament  of  my  disease,  for  people  who  have 


12  CHARACTERISTICS. 

spinal  lesions  without  pain  are  apt  to  be  more  calm 
and  unirritable  than  those  who  have  certain  visceral 
disorders.  Consumptives  are  said  to  be  hopeful,  but 
the  sick  liver  predicts  damnation.  A  learned  divine 
said  a  thing  of  extraordinary  wisdom  when  he  an- 
nounced that  no  man,  however  secure  he  may  be  in 
mind  as  to  his  future  lif e,  ever  dies  a  triumphant  death 
with  disease  below  the  diaphragm. 
/  On  the  8th  of  May,  1866, 1  observed  that  I  could 
wiggle  the  second  toe  of  my  left  foot.  I  have  ever 
since  had  a  peculiar  affection  for  this  little  sub-mem- 
ber of  my  locomotive  organs.  Head  and  toe  were  now 
both  alive,  and  seemed  to  salute  each  other  across  a 
length  of  motionless  body.  I  indicated  this  immense 
fact  to  my  affable  doctor.  He  put  on  his  glasses  and 
looked.  Then  he  said,  "  You  will  get  welL" 
To  which  I  replied,  "  I  always  was  sure  of  that." 
I  saw  that  it  was  disagreeable  to  him  to  be  thus 
anticipated  by  hope,  and  so  said  no  more.  In  the 
evening  he  brought  the  consulting  surgeon,  and 
triumphantly  pointed  out  the  prophetic  conduct  of 
this  hitherto  uninteresting  part  of  me. 

I  am  not  concerned  to  dwell  upon  the  medical  de- 
tails of  my  case  except  as  they  bear  upon  life  or  char- 
acter. Sensation  came  back  first,  and  in  about  a 
month  I  could  move  both  legs  and  arms ;  but  I  had 
become  the  victim  of  a  new  experience.  As  my  loco- 
motive powers  increased  I  suffered  agonizing  pain 
in  the  back  and  neck  and  arms.  It  was  almost  my 
first  enduring  personal  sensation  of  acute  pain,  and  it 
lasted  long  enough  to  enable  me  to  make  acquaintance 
with  every  variety  of  torment.  Civilized  mankind  has 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  13 

of  will  ceased  to  torture,  but  in  our  process  of  being 
civilized  we  have  won,  I  suspect,  intensified  capacity  to 
suffer.  The  savage  does  not  feel  pain  as  we  do ;  nor, 
as  we  examine  the  descending  scale  of  life,  do  animals 
seem  to  have  the  acuteness  of  pain-sense  to  which  we 
have  arrived,  a  fact  I  have  often  observed  in  regard  to 
wounded  horses  on  the  battle-field.  I  had  at  one  time 
served  awhile  as  assistant  surgeon  in  the  wards  of  a 
hospital  to  which  were  sent  most  of  the  bad  cases  of 
wounded  nerves.  In  this  abode  of  torment,  where 
sixty  thousand  hypodermatic  injections  of  morphia 
were  given  and  needed  within  a  year,  I  saw  every  form 
of  suffering.  But  personal  acquaintance  with  pain  is 
quite  another  matter.  It  inclines  me  to  think  that 
every  doctor  ought  to  go  through  a  sharp  little  course 
of  colic,  gout,  and,  if  you  please,  a  smart  fitjrf  hyster- 
ics before  venturing  on  the  practice  of  his  profession. 
An  old  friend  of  mine  used  to  say  that  all  clergymen 
should  have  a  mild  education  in  iniquity  as  a  prepara- 
tion for  their  career,  but  this  I  hardly  hold  to  as  a 
serious  opinion. 

Assuredly  I  had  never  realized  the  influential  quali- 
ties of  pain  as  I  now  came  to  do.  Of  all  the  means 
not  of  his  own  making  which  degrade,  debase,  and 
morally  ruin  a  man,  pain  seems  to  be  the  most  potent. 
I  became  irritable,  perverse,  ungrateful,  and  selfish.  I 
lay  abed  thinking  how  I  could  put  my  tortures  into 
language  descriptive  enough  to  impress  the  infernal 
calm  of  that  placid  doctor,  who  came  and  went,  and 
was  as  cool  as  I  had  been  in  the  wards  of  that  museum 
of  anguish  to  which  I  have  above  referred.  I  had 
been  wont  to  think  and  speak  philosophically  of  pain, 


14  CHARACTERISTICS. 

but  this  continual  and  ingeniously  varied  torture  was 
to  me  a  novel  experience,  and  left  on  my  mind  the  be- 
lief that  certainly  an  abode  of  eternal  torment  would 
have  the  effect  of  making  men  hopelessly  regret  lost 
opportunities,  but  would  as  surely  make  them  morally 
worse,  if  it  left  them  leisure  to  think  at  all. 

I  steadily  resisted  all  efforts  to  induce  me  to  use 
sedatives  until  one  day,  toward  evening,  when  I  had  a 
new  performance  in  my  hands,  as  if  they  were  being 
rasped  with  hot  files.  Then  I  yielded,  and  my  doctor 
gave  me  a  hypodermatic  injection  of  morphia.  I  lay 
awake  all  night  in  perfect  comfort,  heedless  of  the 
passage  of  time,  and  wondering  at  the  bliss  of  relief. 
'T  was  heaven  bought  with  hell,  for  the  next  day  I 
was  doubly  tormented. 

None  who  have  not  known  long  chronic  illness  can 
conceive  of  the  misery  enforced  idleness  inflicts  on  a  ( 
\J  man  used  to  active  life.     This  intensity  of  ennui,  com-  j 
parable  only  to  that  which  some  children  suffer,  is 
eased  by  morphia.    The  hours  go  by  almost  joyously. 
Misfortunes  trouble  no  longer.     One  drifts  on  an  en- 
,   chanted  sea.     This  death  of  ennui  is  the  most  efficient 
\  bribe  which  opium  offers. 

I  dreamed  a  great  deal  during  my  long  sickness, 
and  not  always  unpleasantly.  At  one  time,  in  my 
younger  life,  I  read  that  Lord  Coke  kept  a  diary  of  his 
dreams,  in  the  belief  that  from  them  he  could  learn 
more  of  his  true  character.  Before  I  took  morphia  I 
followed  his  example  for  a  time,  dictating  my  dreams 
to  my  nurse ;  but  I  soon  tired  of  this,  as  I  observed 
that  often  in  dreaming  I  could,  as  it  were,  examine  my 
own  mental  state,  and  always  to  the  effect  of  conclud- 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  15 

ing  that  what  I  did,  said,  or  thought  was  as  I  would 
have  done  under  the  like  circumstances  when  awake, 
except  that  I  rarely  seemed  to  myself  to  laugh  in 
dreams,  whereas,  when  awake,  life  was  full  of  humor- 
ous aspects  to  me.  Under  morphia  I  was  capable  of 
mirthful  visions,  which  occurred  to  me  while  I  was 
awake  at  night.  Dreams  are  very  personal  things,  and 
this  may  be  why  my  father  always  insisted  to  me  when 
a  child  that  it  was  bad  manners  to  relate  dreams,  and 
certainly  nothing  interests  one  less  than  to  be  told  the 
dreams  of  another  man.  I  had,  however,  two  experi- 
ences in  this  matter  which  are  so  amusing  and  curious 
that  I  venture  to  relate  them  as  additions  to  the  rather 
grim  literature  of  opium. 

I  had  taken  one  night  a  grain  of  morphia,  and  then 
another  like  dose,  and  thereupon  passed  into  a  sweet 
sleep.  In  an  hour  I  awoke  and  began  to  see  things, 
chiefly  scenes  from  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  and  then, 
abruptly,  the  following : 

I  had  been  for  some  years,  as  I  have  said,  in  practice 
in  a  great  city,  and  now  I  saw  my  little  study  with  all 
its  belongings  set  out  clearly  in  the  darkness  of  my 
chamber.  A  maid  servant  entered  and  told  me  that  a 
patient  wished  to  see  me.  I  said,  or  seemed  to  say, 
"Ask  him  to  walk  hi."  Upon  which  the  woman  opened 
both  leaves  of  the  folding-door  between  me  and  my 
waiting-room.  This  excited  my  wonder  until  I  saw 
enter  with  difficulty  a  man  of  enormous  bulk.  He 
looked  at  the  chairs,  and  finally  sat  down  with  care  on 
a  lounge,  remarking : 

"  At  hotels  I  have  to  be  careful ;  they  put  it  in  the 
bill." 


16  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

The  vision  went  on,  and  I  apparently  said,  "What 
can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

"  As  a  gentleman,"  he  returned,  "  I  cannot  go  fur- 
ther without  a  warning.  I  want  to  consult  you,  but  I 
cannot  in  justice  do  so  until  I  say  that  whenever  I 
mention  a  symptom  to  a  doctor  it  leaves  me  and  goes 
to  him." 

"  Really !  "  I  exclaimed,  incredulously. 

"Yes.  They  all  tell  me  that  I  am  a  crank;  that 
this  is  a  peculiar  delusion,  and  the  like." 

"  Go  on,"  I  said.     "  It  is  easily  tested." 

As  I  replied  I  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  singular, 
the  iris  and  pupil  being  quite  double  the  ordinary 
diameters.  The  color  was  a  dead  gray,  and  the  organs 
in  question  had  a  malicious  fixity  of  expression. 

"  Pray  go  on,"  I  repeated.     "  Are  you  in  earnest  ? " 

"  I  have  a  severe  pain  in  my  back,  about  the  lumbar 
region  on  the  left" 

Instantly  I  myself  felt  a  sharp  pain  just  in  the  part 
mentioned,  and  I  put  my  hand  to  it,  or  seemed  to,  for 
the  arms  were  still  unable  to  move  freely. 

"Aha!  I  was  right;  you  doctors  are  all  skeptical." 

"Nonsense,"  I  returned.  "This  is  not  strange 
enough  to  convince  a  reasoning  man." 

"  The  last  fellow  said  it  was  a  coincidence." 

"Goon." 

"  Oh,  very  well.    I  am  blind  in  my  left  eye." 

At  once  I  covered  my  right  eye,  and  knew  that  he 
was  right.  I  was  unable  to  see  anything. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  I,  faintly.     "  Stop." 

"  Yes.  You  cannot  say  that  I  did  not  warn  you.  It 
may  interest  you  to  know  that  as  I  came  up  the  street 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  17 

I  left  eleven  symptoms  with  different  doctors.  One 
was  difficult  to  satisfy  j  he  got  an  enlarged  liver,  em- 
physema of  the  left  lung,  and  varicose  veins.  I  have 
seen  but  one  reasonable  doctor,  and  it,  or  she  (for  the 
doctor  was  a  woman),  said  she  always  carried  away 
some  of  her  patients'  symptoms,  and  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  me." 

At  this  he  rose,  and  I  also  attempted  to  do  the  same, 
but  found  that  my  armchair  rose  with  me. 

"What  horrible  thing  is  this?"  I  said. 

"  I  forgot !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  How  shall  I  ever  for- 
give myself !  Now  it  is  too  late.  I  ought  to  have  told 
you  that  as  my  aches  and  ailments  leave  me  to  settle 
in  the  body  of  the  doctor,  so  also  does  my  flesh,  which, 
as  you  see,  is  unduly  great.  A  few  days  more  and  I 
shall  have  left  the  rest  of  my  excess  in  Boston.  There 
no  one  believes  anything  old,  and  everybody  believes 
anything  new." 

"  Please  to  go  away,"  I  said ;  and  I  saw  him  waddle 
slowly  out  of  the  room. 

The  notes  of  this  queer  vision  I  managed  to  make 
my  nurse  write  for  me  the  next  morning.  Its  oddness 
to  me  consisted  in  the  fact  that  it  amused  me  as  it 
passed  before  me,  and  that  I  appeared  to  be  at  the 
time  watching  myself,  as  if  I,  the  watcher,  were  one, 
and  I,  the  actor,  another  person — not  a  very  rare  state 
in  ordinary  dreams. 

These  opium  visions  were  of  a  definiteness  which  is 
never  found  in  the  dreams  of  sleep,  and  were  rarely 
unpleasant.  I  could  not  command  their  presence. 
For  many  nights  I  would  sleep  well  under  morphia, 
and  then  pass  a  night  of  entire  wakefulness  haunted 


18  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

by  spectacular  scenes.  I  promised  to  limit  myself  to 
the  telling  of  only  two;  both  had  some  relation  to 
things  in  which  I  had  been  especially  interested.  Thus 
I  had  once  experimented  with  care  on  myself  to  learn 
how  most  safely  to  reduce  an  excess  of  fat ;  and  my 
second  vision  was  in  some  way  the  outcome  of  a  paper 
I  wrote  as  a  student. 

I  was  of  a  sudden  in  the  laboratory  of  the  foremost 
of  American  chemists,  and  had  arranged  an  apparatus 
so  that  on  one  side  of  a  piece  of  tanned  rhinoceros- 
hide  I  placed  bisulphid  of  carbon,  and  on  the  other  an 
agent  well  known  to  my  dream  state,  but,  alas !  lost  to 
the  memory  of  daylight.  My  chemical  friend  smiled 
blandly  as  I  told  him  that  osmotic  currents  would 
slowly  form  in  the  course  of  months,  and,  my  bisulphid 
of  carbon  being  very  gradually  decomposed,  crystals 
of  carbon,  or,  in  other  words,  diamonds,  would  be 
formed  on  the  surface  of  the  membrane.  Having  ar- 
ranged my  apparatus,  it  was  put  into  a  safe.  I  re- 
member to  have  felt  the  most  profound  interest,  not 
unmixed  with  amusement,  at  what  I  did,  and  I  was 
annoyed  when  the  laboratory  faded  away  and  a  Druid- 
ical  procession  appeared  in  a  grove.  At  last  I  had  a 
distinct  sense  of  gratification  as  again  the  laboratory 
appeared,  and  my  friend  stood  before  the  open  safe. 
I  carefully  drew  out  the  tray  on  which  stood  the 
dialyzer.  On  the  top  of  the  membrane  were  several 
dull-looking  stones,  one  as  large  as  a  walnut.  My 
friend  took  this  up,  and  crossed  the  room.  In  a  min- 
ute he  came  back,  saying:  "You  have  made  seven 
hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds.  This 


CHARACTERISTICS.  19 

lesser  one  is  of  perfect  water ;  the  large  one  is  a  little 
blue." 

I  said  that  I  knew  I  should  succeed. 

"It  will  be  very  useful  in  the  arts,"  returned  my 
friend.  "  I  shall  like  to  have  about  two  dozen  of  the 
size  of  a  pigeon's  egg  to  enable  me  to  make  certain 
studies  in  chemical  physics." 

Now  this  was  pretty  much  what  the  man  would  have 
desired,  and  would  have  asked  under  like  circum- 
stances. The  scientific  aspect  of  the  matter  would  for 
him  have  been  the  only  one,  and  it  did  seem  to  me  odd 
that,  without  act  of  will  of  which  I  was  cognizant,  he 
should  thus  speak  through  me  with  the  simplicity  and 
directness  which  are  a  part  of  his  character.  Again, 
it  was  characteristic  of  me  that  some  of  the  moral  de- 
velopments of  the  affair  should  present  themselves. 
However,  without  more  comment,  I  will  relate  my  fur- 
ther remembrance  of  it  as  it  was  written  down  next  day. 

I  answered  his  desire  by  a  promise  that  he  should 
have  what  he  wanted,  and  went  on  to  say:  "What 
shall  we  do  ?  I  may  make  ten  millions  in  diamonds, 
and  then  cease,  and  never  reveal  the  method;  or  I 
may  at  once  publish  it,  in  which  case  all  the  diamonds 
in  the  world  become  as  glass,  and  multitudes  of  people 
are  ruined.  And  what  will  the  women  say  ? " 

"  Some  one  must  continue  to  make  diamonds,"  said 
my  friend.  "There  are  numberless  uses  for  them 
which  their  cost  now  forbids." 

But  I  could  not  consent  to  make  a  fortune,  sell  my 
diamonds,  and  then  render  them  valueless  to  those  to 
whom  I  had  sold  them. 


20  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  It  is  a  difficult  problem,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  an  impossible  one,"  said  I ;  and  here  the  vis- 
ion ended  in  some  wild  cavern  scene,  for  neither  will 
nor  wish  on  my  part  had  power  to  detain  a  picture, 
nor  to  secure  the  continuance  of  one  of  these  dramatic 
visions  where  I  was  the  whole  company  and  the  whole 
audience. 


H. 


WAS  a  year  in  bed  before  I  could 
walk,  or  even  stand,  but  my  recovery 
was  then  rapid  and  complete.  Pain 
I  knew  by  this  time  in  a  wonderful 
variety  of  forms,  but  of  whatever  it 
finally  did  of  good  or  evil  to  me  I 
shall  say  but  little.  The  evil  was  immediate,  the 
good  remote  or  indirect.  If  any  man  wants  to  learn 
sympathetic  charity,  let  him  keep  pain  subdued  for  six 
months  by  morphia,  and  then  make  the  experiment  of 
giving  up  the  drug.  By  this  time  he  will  have  become 
irritable,  nervous,  and  cowardly.  The  nerves,  muffled 
so  to  speak,  by  narcotics,  will  have  grown  to  be  not 
less  sensitive,  but  acutely,  abnormally  capable  of  feel- 
ing pain,  and  of  feeling  as  pain  a  multitude  of  things 
not  usually  competent  to  cause  it.  I  did  what  I  have 
known  one  other  human  being  to  do,  and  that  a 
woman.  After  several  efforts  to  get  rid  of  my  foe  by 
degrees,  I  shut  myself  up  in  my  room,  and,  declining 
to  see  any  physician,  fought  it  out  alone  and  unaided. 
At  the  close  of  two  weeks  I  could  sleep  without  mor- 
phia, but  of  the  torture  of  that  fortnight  I  have  even 
now  scarce  courage  to  think.  The  victory  left  me,  as 
to  my  body,  a  wreck,  but  made  me  forever  tender  to 
those  who  are  under  the  despotic  rule  of  this  and  other 


22  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

as  hurtful  habits.  I  learned  also  how  much  of  char- 
acter is  a  question  of  health,  and  this  too  has  had  for 
me  its  value  in  life. 

At  the  close  of  two  years  I  was  well  and  as  vigorous 
as  ever,  but  the  wound  and  its  consequence  left  with 
me  one  other  result  for  which  I  was  not  prepared.  I 
took  a  growing  dislike  to  the  profession  of  which  I  had 
been  proud,  having  looked  forward  to  being  enabled 
to  apply  myself  wholly  to  the  study  of  the  science  of 
medicine  rather  than  to  its  general  practice.  I  sup- 
pose that  I  could  have  conquered  my  feelings,  and  that 
in  time  they  would  have  left  me ;  but  I  had  no  need 
to  make  a  fight,  and  as  yet  my  power  of  self-govern- 
ment was  not  what  it  had  been.  I  disliked  most  of  all 
the  idea  of  practising  among  disorders  like  my  own. 
This  I  cannot  understand,  but  I  may  say  that  patients 
who  have  grave  chronic  maladies  which  they  know  to 
be  fatal  are,  as  a  rule,  indisposed  to  hear  of  the  sad 
needs  of  like  cases  among  the  poor ;  nor,  if  rich,  do 
they  especially  incline  to  help  these,  or  to  provide  for 

,  them  in  any  way.     I  am,  as  I  have  said,  a  student  of 
'   character,  but  this  peculiarity  has  never  been  quite 

1  explicable  to  me,  and  that  it  has  had  noble  exceptions 
only  serves  to  emphasize  the  existence  of  the  mass  of 
facts  which  prove  my  point.  I  saw  pretty  soon  that 
I  was  in  no  condition  to  make  a  struggle,  and  so  gave 
it  up  for  a  time,  and  went  abroad. 

While  in  Europe  I  amused  myself  with  a  close  study 
of  the  characteristics  of  the  Slav,  the  Teutonic,  and  the 
Celtic  races,  and  for  this  purpose  lived  much  among 
all  classes.  Some  of  my  conclusions  are  to  be  found 
in  my  volume  on  the  "  Influence  of  Language  on  Char- 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  23 

acter,"  which  is,  of  course,  but  a  part  of  a  larger  sub- 
ject. I  ain  not  wholly  satisfied  as  yet  with  my  method 
of  treating  this  matter,  but  I  am  quite  certain  that 
if  to-day  France  and  Germany  were  suddenly  and 
miraculously  to  interchange  tongues,  the  two  nations 
would  shortly  undergo  some  unlooked-for  alterations. 
I  have  known  several  people  whose  superficial  char- 
acteristics were  quite  different  according  as  they  spoke 
French  or  English,  although  they  were  as  fluent  in  the 
one  as  in  the  other.  I  know  of  one  woman  who  is 
common  and  ill-bred  as  an  Englishwoman,  but  who, 
when  she  speaks  French,  which  she  knows  well,  is 
apparently  well-mannered  and  rather  attractive.  Nor, 
as  we  reflect,  does  this  seem  altogether  strange  when 
we  consider  how  much  national  character  has  to  do 
with  the  evolution  of  language  and  how  impossible 
exact  translation  is.  I  have  heard  a  man  say  that  to 
read  or  speak  French  made  him  feel  gay,  and  that  the 
effect  of  like  uses  of  German  was  quieting. 

The  second  part  of  my  work  on  national  character- 
istics was  to  have  been  on  the  relative  conception  and 
valuation  of  truth,  and  then  of  courage,  among  na- 
tions. I  was  interrupted  in  the  study  by  a  call  home 
on  a  matter  of  business  which  involved  a  large  amount 
of  money  and  allowed  of  no  delay. 

On  my  return  I  found  that  a  certain  Western  cap- 
italist, a  man  already  of  vast  fortune  obtained  by 
modern  methods,  had  succeeded  in  depressing  what 
are  fantastically  termed  securities  connected  with  a 
short  railroad,  and  that  a  good  deal  of  my  means  was 
likely  to  disappear  in  the  process  of  adding  a  million 
or  more  to  the  hoards  of  a  great  gambler. 
3 


24  CHARACTERISTICS. 

What  was  worse,  my  father,  who  had  had  charge  of 
many  trusts,  had  confidently  invested  certain  excesses 
of  income  for  the  widow  of  a  friend  in  the  securities 
in  question,  and  for  years  their  rise  in  value  had  jus- 
tified him.  But  now  came  a  robber  who,  by  a  variety 
of  methods,  succeeded  in  injuring  the  road  with  the 
intention  of  buying  it  in  at  a  low  rate  as  a  bankrupt 
concern.  In  the  case  just  mentioned  a  sick  woman 
and  two  children  relied  largely  on  the  income  hitherto 
coming  to  them  with  regularity,  and  I  felt  that,  as  re- 
gards these  victims,  I  must  make  good  their  losses. 
I  was  told  by  business  men  that  this  was  absurd ;  that 
my  father  had  acted  in  good  faith  and  within  the  law ; 
that  it  was  no  one's  fault  that  their  sources  of  income 
had  failed  these  people. 

It  became  more  and  more  clear  to  me  on  my  way 
home  that  I  was  to  be  a  serious  loser,  and  I  went  at 
once  to  consult  a  friend  of  whom  I  shall  have,  by  and 
by,  more  to  say.  When  I  entered  his  office,  Frederick 
Vincent  was  talking  with  Clayborne,  another  friend  of 
both  of  us,  and  whom  I  had  not  met  since  my  recent 
return.  Clayborne  looked  like  a  giant  out  of  business. 
A  tall,  stalwart  man,  clumsily  strong,  he  stooped  a 
little,  and  carried  off  but  ill  his  unusual  stature.  To 
shake  hands  with  this  huge  creature  was  a  serious 
matter.  He  was  innocently  given  to  crushing  the 
hand  one  confided  to  his  grip  in  a  fashion  which  not 
insignificantly  reminded  one  of  the  way  in  which  he 
was  apt  to  deal  with  the  emotions  or  prejudices  even 
of  those  he  loved  the  best. 

"  I  have  been  to  see  you  both,"  I  said,  "  and  did  see 
Mrs.  Vincent." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  25 

It  was  pleasant  to  feel  sure  how  glad  these  men 
were  to  welcome  me.  As  I  explained  the  reason  for 
my  sudden  return  Vincent's  face  took  on  that  look  of 
grave  intensity  of  attention  which  so  inspired  confi- 
dence in  his  advice.  The  large  ruggedness  of  Clay- 
borne's  features  underwent  no  change,  but  he,  too,  set 
himself  to  listen,  and  now  and  then  made  a  note. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  after  fully  stating  the  situation,  "  it 
is  my  good  fortune  to  have  found  you  together.  I 
come  prepared  to  take  whatever  counsel  you  may  give. 
Does  the  law  offer  me  any  chance,  Vincent  ?  " 

"You  might  as  well  go  to  law  with  a  cyclone," 
growled  Clayborne. 

"  No,"  said  Vincent ;  "  I  think  we  might  beat  him  in 
time  j  but  it  would  be  costly,  might  take  two  years  or 
V'more,  and,  frankly,  my  dear  Owen,  I  do  not  think  you 
could  stand  it.  Commercial  men  have  no  idea  what  a 
torture  business — complicated  business — may  become 
to—" 

"  To  one  like  me,  Fred  ?  You  are  right,  quite  right. 
I  could  not  stand  it." 

"  I  would  not  go  to  law,"  continued  Vincent,  "  and 
I  see  no  other  way  out,  except  to  sell  and  accept  the 
loss." 

"Transfer  your  interest  to  me,"  said  Clayborne, 
"  and  let  me  fight  it  for  you ;  I  shall  enjoy  the  row. 
It  won't  hurt  me." 

"  No ;  I  cannot  do  that." 

"  And  what  else  will  you  do  ?  " 

"I  must  go  West,  and  look  into  the  state  of  the 
road.  If  it  seem  hopeless,  I  shall  sell  out  and  make 
good  the  losses  of  the  woman  I  spoke  of." 


26  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Nonsense ! "  exclaimed  Clayborne. 

Vincent  said  nothing. 

"  Do  tell  the  boy  not  to  make  an  ass  of  himself," 
said  Clayborne,  who  was,  I  should  have  said,  by  many 
years  our  senior. 

Vincent  smiled.  "  In  a  year  or  two,  you,  under  like 
circumstances,  would  do  the  same  as  Owen.  Your 
moral  mill  grinds  slowly,  my  friend,  but  I  have  ob- 
served that  it  is  pretty  sure  at  last." 

"But  no  man's  conscience — not  the  most  scrupu- 
lous—" 

"  Pardon  me,  Clayborne,"  interrupted  Vincent ;  "  it 
is  not  a  case  of  conscience  or  of  honesty." 

"And  of  what  then?" 

"  Men  used  to  call  it  honor,"  said  Vincent,  gently, 
without  reproach  or  cynicism  in  his  manner. 

"Confound  it!"  said  Clayborne,  slowly  rising. 
u  The  note  is  above  my  moral  gamut.  I  am  like  the 
people  who  cannot  hear  the  squeak  of  a  mouse." 

"Nevertheless,  Owen  is  right." 

After  this  I  went  away  to  my  hotel,  reflecting  as  I 
walked  along  on  the  possible  character  of  my  robber. 
Here  was  a  man  with  over-much  who  wanted  more. 
Was  this  avarice,  or  was  it  due  to  the  pleasure  he 
found  in  a  game  played  without  scruple  ?  A  famous 
burglar  once  told  me  that  it  was  largely  the  excite- 
ment and  the  immense  obstacles  in  the  way  which 
made  him  a  plunderer  of  safes.  Perhaps  my  foe  had 
a  certain  joy  in  the  complexity  of  the  game  of  destruc- 
tion ;  yet  it  must  have  been  also  that  he  loved  mere 
money,  because  no  one  ever  heard  of  his  having  sud- 
denly restored  a  road  to  its  ruined  owners,  as  one  sets 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  27 

up  tenpins  it  has  been  a  pleasure  successfully  to  bowl 
over.  Had  he  never  been  threatened  ?  Did  he  fear 
no  wild  justice,  the  outcome  of  the  agony  or  madness 
of  some  one  who  saw  wife  and  children  beggared  and 
himself  too  old  or  too  ill  to  renew  the  fierce  battle  of 
lif  e  ?  My  robber  financier  must  have  the  courage  of 
his  guilt  or  lack  predictive  imagination. 

Meanwhile  the  process  of  ruin  went  on,  and,  quite 
helpless,  I  resolved  at  once  to  carry  out  my  plan  of 
investigation.  Accordingly  I  went  straight  to  the 
great  "Western  city  which  was  one  terminus  of  the  road 
in  question.  A  few  days  made  plain  to  me  how  rap- 
idly my  bandit  had  matured  his  plans. 

On  my  arrival  in  L I  found  two  letters.  One, 

from  Vincent,  said : 

I  send  you  a  blank  check.  You  must  not  be  incommoded  by 
this  scoundrel,  or  let  this  trouble  break  up  your  life  plan.  I 
shall  leave  you  in  my  will  the  amount  you  draw,  and  you  can 
then  repay  my  estate.  Anne  and  I  have  talked  it  over 

The  other  was  from  Clayborne. 

Dear  Owen :  It  is  immensely  pleasant  to  be  able  to  help  a 
man  make  a  fool  of  himself.  If  you  do  not  let  me  pay  that 
woman  I  will  give  the  money  to  a  homeopathic  hospital.  You 
may  choose  as  to  which  folly  I  shall  commit. 

Yours,  C . 

I  said  to  myself,  these  are  some  of  the  sweet  uses  of 
adversity.  So,  having  made  up  my  mind  to  accept 
the  loss,  and  having  taken  my  ticket  for  the  homeward 
journey,  I  went  out  quite  at  rest  in  mind  to  wander 

in  L for  the  hour  or  two  yet  left  to  me.     Pausing 

in  the  street  to  ask  of  an  elderly  man  a  light  for  my 


28  CHARACTERISTICS, 

cigar,  I  inquired  the  name  of  the  owner  of  a  huge 
house  at  the  corner.  The  man  replied,  "  Why,  that 's 

Xerxes  Z 's.  Guess  you  're  a  stranger.  I  knowed 

him  when  he  was  a  boy ;  blacked  my  boots  many  a 
time.  Wonder  what  he  'd  take  to  black  'em  now  ? " 
Surprised  to  hear  thus  the  name  of  my  foe,  I  went  on ; 
but  the  house  attracted  me,  and  presently  I  turned 
back.  Then  I  crossed  over,  and  just  at  that  moment 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  rather  frowzy  maid.  A 
sudden  impulse  seized  me.  I  would  see  this  man  if 
he  were  at  home,  and  if  he  were  not  I  would  go  away, 
and  accept  tranquilly  the  misfortune  his  avarice  had 

created  for  me.  The  woman  said  Mr.  Z was  at 

home,  and  showed  me  through  an  unfurnished  hall 
into  the  parlor.  The  house  was  an  old  one  with  open 
grates  in  which  blazed  fierce  anthracite  fires.  The 
furniture  was  ugly  but  not  extravagant. 

I  had  no  plan  in  mind.  I  would  at  least  learn  what 
manner  of  creature  this  was,  and  have  the  poor  com- 
fort before  I  left  of  telling  him  what  the  world  of  the 
honest  thought  of  him  and  his  ways. 

As  a  preliminary  to  our  interview,  I  glanced  about 
me  hastily.  Several  large  Swiss  landscapes  adorned 
the  walls,  and  there  was  also  an  excellent  oil-painting 
of  a  man  in  a  red  shirt  casting  for  trout  beside  a  quiet 
pool.  Near  it  was  a  clever  sketch  of  the  same  sturdy 
person  caressing  a  beautiful  setter.  On  a  marble  cen- 
ter-table were  piled  a  few  books :  a  volume  of  Ameri- 
can scenery,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  and  Tupper,  all  with 
a  certain  stiffness  of  back  symptomatic  of  lack  of  use. 
One,  gorgeously  bound,  was  "Travels  in  the  Holy 
Land,"  a  gift  from  the  Rev.  P.  Y.  to  Xerxes  Z.,  Esq. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  29 

A  volume  on  the  "  Education  of  the  Young,"  by  the 
same  to  the  same.  Also  memoir  of  "Travels  in 
Strange  Lands,"  affectionately  and  gratefully  dedi- 
cated to  X.  Z.,  by  his  pastor,  P.  Y.  My  knowledge 
was  accumulating.  In  the  darkened  back  parlor  was 
a  full  length  of  the  fisherman  by  a  great  English  art- 
ist. It  looked  as  if  the  painter  had  found  pleasure  in 
labeling  the  visage  with  his  own  opinion  of  the  sitter. 
I  wondered  at  the  courage,  or  the  ignorance,  which 
could  accept  such  a  vivid  commentary ;  but,  as  I  have 
said,  it  was  rather  too  dark  to  see  well  this  or  other 
portraits,  and,  observing  a  single  square  green  volume 
on  the  table,  I  walked  back  with  it  to  the  lighter  room, 
and  stood  with  wonder  looking  over  its  few  pages.  It 
was  made  up  of  old  pamphlets  containing  chess  prob- 
lems, and  at  the  close  was  an  account,  written  in  1760, 
of  the  famous  automaton  chess-player.  On  the  fly-leaf 
was  the  autograph  of  Von  Kempelen,  the  inventor. 

As  I  looked  over  the  queer  little  book,  puzzled  and 
interested,  and  knowing,  too,  something  of  the  fate  of 
the  great  and  really  historical  figure  which  had  played 
with  Maria  Theresa,  Frederick  the  Great,  and  Napo- 
leon, I  heard  a  heavy  footfall,  and  my  host  entered — 
a  man  tall  and  broad,  with  ruddy,  coarse,  and  large 
features  borne  on  a  head  which  was  carried  well  back 
and  up. 

I  said,  "  Mr.  X.  Z.,  I  presume  ?  And  first,  before  we 
talk,  let  me  replace  this  book  which  I  brought  from  the 
back  room.  As  a  chess-player  it  interested  me." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  sat  down  while  I  disposed 
of  the  book,  and  came  back  to  my  host,  who  was  still 
seated. 


30  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  Set  down,"  lie  said.  "  What  is  it  you  want  ?  If 
you  're  a  reporter,  my  secretary  will  attend  to  you." 

"No;  I  am  not  a  reporter.  To  go  at  once  to  the 
mark,  I  want  a  half -hour's  talk  with  you." 

"  You  can't  have  it  unless  it  interests  me.  What 's 
it  about?" 

"About  the  P.  L.  and  C.  Railroad." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  go  ahead.  That  is  interesting.  Papers 
say  I  'm  whittlin'  it  up  to  buy  the  chips  low." 

"  Are  you  not  ? " 

"  Well,  you  are  a  cool  hand.  What 's  in  all  this  ? 
Who  sent  you  I " 

"  I  am  a  considerable  owner  of  the  stock  and  bonds," 
I  said,  "  and,  as  I  see  that  these  are  tumbling  pretty 
fast,  and  observe  that  you  have  diverted  all  the  nat- 
ural coal  and  goods  traffic  to  a  longer  loop  line,  and 
that  some  one  is  shoveling  the  stock  out  in  heaps, 
I  concluded  that  you  are  the  man  who,  having  organ- 
ized arrangements  to  injure  my  little  road,  will  step 
in  some  day  and  secure  the  property  of  myself  and 
others." 

I  supposed  that  he  would  be  angry.  Not  at  all.  He 
slowly  stroked  his  long  grizzled  beard,  smiled  as  I  went 
on,  and  as  I  ended  said : 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  No ;  not  quite.  I  want  your  advice  as  to  what  I 
shall  do." 

" Suppose  that  I  tell  you  to  go  to  the  devil?" 

"  But  you  will  not,  or  you  would  have  done  so  at 
once.  I  promised  to  interest  you,  and  you  are  inter- 
ested, and,  besides,  it  would  be  like — well — I  could  n't 
go  there,  because  I  am  there  now." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  31 

"  There  ?  Oh,  I  see.  I  am  the  devil,  am  I,  and  you 
want  advice  ?  Sell  out." 

"I  cannot  afford  to  do  that.  That  is  diabolical 
advice." 

"  Well,  hold  on." 

"  That  means  almost  total  loss.  You  are  advising 
me  from  your  point  of  view ;  reverse  it,  and  take  mine, 
and  then,  with  what  you  know,  say  do  this  or  that. 
I  shall  do  as  you  say." 

"Oh,  will  you?  I  won't  do  it;  it  ain't  business- 
Mind,  I  ain't  said  I  'm  in  this  thing  at  all.  By  George ! 
my  son  Peter  's  in  the  same  boat  as  you.  He  wants 
advice  too.  He  thinks  he  's  clever.  Well — I  advised 
him,  I  did.  I  give  him  high-class  advice.  He  was 
grateful,  that  boy.  Hope  it  '11  last.  Are  n't  we  gettin' 
off  the  track  ? " 

"Yes;  I  'm  sorry  for  Peter.  Of  course  you  must 
keep  up  financial  discipline." 

"  That 's  good.  I  '11  tell  Peter  that  financial  disci- 
pline must  be  kep'  up  in  one's  own  family  circle." 

"  And  now,  as  you  have  admitted  to  being  in  this 
scheme — " 

"I— I  did—did  It8 

"  Yes ;  you  rose  to  my  third  fly." 

"  Look  here,  I  won't  stand  this.  Suppose  I  am  in  it  ? 
Suppose  I  am  not  in  it  ? " 

"  But  you  not  only  rose  to  my  fly,  you  took  it  too. 
You  're  hooked.  Once  you  are  in  an  affair  you  go 
through.  You  began  to  advise  me,  and  it  is  not  in 
your  character  to  fail.  Advice  is  what  you  yourself, 
with  your  knowledge  and  in  like  circumstances,  would 
accept.  You  say,  hold  on.  I  cannot.  You  are  tri- 


32  CHARACTERISTICS. 

fling,  and  that  is  not  your  nature.  You  might  have 
said,  I  will  not  advise.  I  should  have  taken  that,  and 
left ;  but  now  you  are  pledged  to  find  me  a  way  out, 
and  a  safe  way.  You  are  hooked,  and  it  is  time  I 
reeled  you  in.  Three  runs  are  enough." 

My  host  rose  up,  and  set  two  heavy  paws  on  the 
table  behind  which  I  sat.  He  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  some  strong  plantigrade  beast  of  the  grizzly  type. 
For  a  moment  he  regarded  me  with  curiosity,  and  then 
broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter  which  shook  the  bulky 
chandelier-pendants  above  us.  I  remained  tranquil. 
At  last  he  said : 

"  Who  's  been  a-blowin'  to  you  about  me  ? " 

"No  one." 

"  Oh,  come  now.     I  rose  to  the  fly,  did  I  ? " 

"  Yes ;  it  looked  new  to  you,  and  up  you  came. 
Fatal  curiosity." 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  to  compare  me  to  a  trout, 
but  no  man  was  ever  took  that  simple.  I  'd  like  to 
have  old  Phil  Sleeper  with  a  hook  in  his  gills  and  a 
long  line  and  quick  water  and  a  multiplyin'  reel — 
hang  him." 

"  I  am  not  Phil  Sleeper.     The  case  is  reversed." 

"Is  it?  Why,  you  must  be  a  fisherman  yourself. 
Come  here  and  see  this  picture.  I  had  Simmons  do 
that.  It  is  just  at  the  outlet  of  Moosehead.  I  'm  fast 
to  a  cast  of  eight  pounds  —  one  five,  one  three.  Ever 
tie  your  own  flies  ?  n 

"Sometimes." 

"  This  morning,  I  suppose  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Rather  curious,  is  n't  it,  that  two  men  as  different 


CHAKACTERISTICS.  33 

as  you  and  me  should  like  the  same  sort  of  things — 
fly-fishin',  chess?" 

"  And  how  are  we  different?"  I  said,  much  amused. 

"You  're  the  queerest  man  I  ever  saw — a  whole 
menagerie.  By  the  time  you  're  ten  years  older  you 
won't  have  a  dollar.  How  's  that  for  a  guess  ? " 

"  Not  a  bad  one.  And  here  is  one  for  you.  Some 
day  you  will  go  to  bits.  I  see  it  in  your  face." 

"  Why,  I  've  been  worth  millions  three  times,  and  not 
a  cent  next  day.  Safe  this  time ;  got  it  solid." 

"I  'm  not  sure.  One  more  smash,  and  your  ner- 
vous system  won't  stand  it.  What  advice  have  you  ? 
You  have  wasted  quite  time  enough.  Three  long  runs, 
sulked  a  little,  two  or  three  dangerous  jumps.  Now  I 
propose  to  reel  in.  You  like  a  man  who  can  outwit 
you  j  he  is  the  only  thing  you  esteem  on  earth." 

"  That  's  so.  TeU  you  what  I  11  do.  If  you  can 
beat  me  one  game  at  chess  I  '11  take  your  stock  at  par.'' 

"  And  bonds  ? " 

"Yes;  last  offer." 

"  1 11  do  it,"  I  said. 

"  Then  you  're  done  for,  young  man.  Come  along. 
Who  riz  to  the  fly  this  time  ? " 

I  followed  him  into  a  small  room,  bare  of  furniture 
except  a  desk,  chess-table,  and  spittoons.  I  was  looked 
upon  as  a  good  second-rate  among  our  local  players, 
and  had  a  pretty  clear  idea  that  I  should  win.  He 
chuckled  as  we  went  in,  and,  sitting  down,  arranged 
the  board.  He  won  the  move,  and  opened  with  the 
famous  but  little-known  Catapult  gambit.  I  replied 
with  Herr  Strombalovsky's  defense,  and  the  game  went 
on.  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  quite  my  equal.  Pres- 


34  CHARACTERISTICS. 

ently,  having  a  little  view  ahead,  and  his  queen  being 
in  trouble,  I  said,  "Did  you  ever  see  Maelzel's  au- 
tomaton ? " 

"Never,"  he  returned,  abstractedly. 

"It  used  to  be  in  Philadelphia;  was  burned  up; 
said  '  check '  in  its  last  moments.  Queer  that,  was  it 
not?" 

"  Oh,  look  here,  there 's  a  lot  of  money  in  this  game. 
If  you  think— " 

I  had  accustomed  myself  to  talk  to  a  by-stander 
while  playing  chess,  because  I  found  that  constant  at- 
tention never  helped  me,  and  that  a  few  moments  of 
intense  concentration  between  moves  got  the  best  re- 
sults out  of  my  chess  capacities.  I  thought  a  moment, 
and  castled  the  king.  This  altered  the  situation,  and 
while  he  studiously  contemplated  the  game  I  went  on 
talking. 

"I  have  an  old  Dutch  treatise  on  chess.  There  is 
one  splendid  gambit.  Never  been  published.  You 
begin  with  the  king  castle's  pawn." 

"  Nonsense !  Oh,  look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  new  gambits.  What  is  it,  anyway  ?  You  wait 
till  we  're  done.  Bet  you  five  hundred  dollars  it  is  n't 
new." 

Then  he  moved  a  knight. 

"  Check,"  said  I.  "  I  have  myself  two  books  of  ends 
of  games  belonging  to  Von  Kempelen."  He  made  no 
answer,  but  moved  a  bishop  to  guard  the  king. 

"  Check,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  that 's  your  talk.     It 's  against  the  rules." 

"  Nonsense !  This  is  a  game  of  chess,  not  the  game. 
Check  again." 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  35 

"  Ever  kill  a  salmon  ? "  I  added. 

"No;  that  must  be  fun." 

"  There  is  a  boss  salmon  in  the  Cascapedia,  weighs 
about  ninety  pounds.  They  say  he  has  been  hooked 
at  least  six  dozen  times.  His  mouth  is  so  full  of  flies 
and  leaders  it  looks  like  a  beard.  They  call  him  the 
governor-general." 

"  Oh,  bother !  "   And  he  moved  a  pawn. 

"  Check." 

"  Euchred,"  he  said.  "  I  give  up.  It 's  sure  mate  in 
three  moves.  I  give  up." 

"  No ;  we  must  play  it  out.  A  given  game  is  not 
won.  You  would  turn  around  and  say  I  had  not  beaten 
you,  and  decline  to  pay  the  forfeit." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  meant  to  do,  my  boy.  I  wish 
Peter  was  like  you.  He  believes  every  word  I  say." 

"Check— mate,"  said  I. 

"  I  've  lost.  What  possessed  me  ?  You  just  write 
to  Falls  &  Sons.  They  '11  settle.  Want  it  in  writing  ? " 

"  I  ?  No.  Of  course  not.  You  are  free  to  pay  or 
not.  I  pestered  you  with  talk.  It  was  hardly  fair. 
Pay  or  not,  as  you  like.  I  did  not  in  any  honest  sense 
win." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense.  Do  you  suppose,  sir,  I  don't 
keep  my  engagements  ?  I  don't  guess  you  came  here 
to  insult  me." 

"  No ;  hardly.  I  really  came  because  I  was  curious 
to  see  what  manner  of  man  you  were." 

"  Like  going  to  a  menagerie  show.  Well,  you  've 
seen  it,  and  got  your  money  back  too ;  but  don't  you 
go  and  buy  a  lot  more  stock  now.  It  's  awful  low. 
How  much  am  I  in  for  this  gamble  ? " 


36  CHARACTERISTICS. 

I  named  the  amounts ;  he  noted  them,  rose,  and  as 
we  went  out  into  the  hall  said,  "  Let  me  see  those  ends 
of  games." 

"  I  will  send  you  the  books.    Pray  keep  them." 

"And  look  here — I  never  had  a  better  mornin'  in 
my  life ;  but  don't  you  go  and  tell  everybody,  and  put 
it  in  the  papers.  What 's  your  address?  I  '11  send 
you  the  Wall  street  trout-fly.  Peter  calls  him  the  bull." 

At  the  door  I  said,  "  By  the  way,  I  never  told  you  my 
name." 

"  That 's  so ! a    And  he  took  my  card. 

"  Well,  by  George !  you  're  a  doctor.  That  's  the 
very  queerest  thing  I  ever  did  know.  Why,  I  never 
knew  a  doctor  ever  knew  anything — his  own  busi- 
ness, or  any  one  else's.  How  Peter  would  laugh.  But 
he  won't  next  Monday.  Good  mornin',  Doctor  North. 
Come  in  again  and  give  me  my  revenge." 

As  I  turned  to  go  he  stopped  me.  "You  said  I 
did  n't  look  well— " 

"Yes;  I  said  that.  It  is  something,  I  cannot  tell 
what,  about  your  eyes — " 

"  Hum !  come  back  and  go  over  me  a  bit.  I  ain't 
felt  well  of  late,  that  's  a  fact.  And  I  can't  tell  the 
doctors  here.  Don't  trust  'em."  I  went  in  again,  and 
finally  remained  in  the  city  overnight  to  complete  my 
study  of  his  case. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "what  's  wrong  with  my 
works  ?  Not  much  margin,  eh  ?  " 

"You  have  a  disease  of  the  kidneys — " 

"Fatal?  Mind,  I  don't  skeer  easy.  Yes,  or  no? 
Out  with  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  with  care  you  may  live  many  years." 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  37 

"  How  many  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  will  write  out  my  advice  for  you 
in  full." 

"  Good.  And  I  may  trust  you  not  to  let  it  get  into 
the  papers.  It  would  be  worth  a  lot  of  money  to  some- 
body." 

"  You  are  safe  with  me." 

"  I  believe  you.  You  have  done  me  a  big  service. 
What 's  your  fee  ? " 

"  It  is  large." 

"  I  don't  care.    What  is  it  ? " 

"  My  fee  is  that  you  put  that  road  back  where  it  was 
a  year  ago." 

"  Darned  if  I  do.  And  take  your  stock  too  ?  No, 
sir." 

"  I  have  reflected.  I  won't  take  the  money  for  it.  I 
have  told  you  my  fee.  Good  morning." 

"  I  '11  do  it.  No  man  can  say  Xerxes  Z don't 

pay  his  debts.  Five  years  ?  Ten  ?  How  long  have  I 
got  ?  You  '11  have  to  take  care  of  me.  I  '11  send  my 
private  car  for  you  every  month." 

"  I  will  do  it.  There  is  even  a  chance,  a  small  one, 
of  recovery." 

"Is  that  so?  Hold  on  to  your  stock;  buy  more; 
it 's  pretty  low.  And  come  and  dine  here  to-day." 

"  No ;  I  cannot.     I  must  go.     Good-by." 

"  Well,  buy  soon.  Don't  you  forget,  and  hold  your 
tongue,  too.  It 's  the  biggest  bill  I  ever  paid.  You  're 
not  a  cheap  doctor." 

XERXES  was  as  good  as  his  word,  but  I  bought  no 
more  of  the  stock.  In  a  year  or  two  I  was  better  off 


38  CHARACTERISTICS. 

than  before.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not  appear  to  myself 
well  in  this  transaction.  I  had  used  the  robber's 
methods  to  overcome  the  robber.  It  was  true  that  I 
had  estimated  correctly  the  character  of  Mr.  X.  Z.,  but 
to  meet  the  demands  of  the  situation  I  had  acted 
against  my  own  habitual  ways.  To  this  day  the  first 
part  of  that  little  affair  sits  like  a  toad  in  one  corner 
of  my  mind  and  sneers  at  me.  It  is  the  one  thing  I 
have  never  told  Vincent.  I  merely  said  to  him  on  my 
return  that  I  was  resolved  to  wait,  and  have  been  much 
applauded  for  my  sagacity.  Also,  I  am  free  to  admit 
that  I  did  pull  the  great  financier  through  his  physical 
difficulties.  He  lived  to  do  untold  mischief.  I  was 
once  standing  on  a  pier  in  London  when  a  thief,  sharply 
pursued,  in  trying  to  jump  into  a  wherry,  fell  over- 
board. He  sank  twice,  when  in  dashed  a  huge  New- 
foundland and  towed  the  unconscious  rascal  ashore, 
where  he  was  promptly  seized  by  the  police.  For  my 
part,  the  behavior  of  that  dog  interested  me.  He  shook 
himself,  and  settled  down  in  the  sun  on  the  pier  with 
a  look  of  distinct  self-gratulation  at  his  feat.  The 
morals  of  the  drowning  man  did  not  concern  him.  I 
have  often  thought  about  that  dog. 


m. 


WAS  now  again  at  ease  as  to  the 
future,  and  without  occupation.  A 
man  of  some  thirty-six  years  of  age, 
I  was  master  of  three  languages,  well 
read  in  a  general  way,  and,  as  may 
have  been  seen,  a  practised  and  in- 
terested observer  of  my  fellow  men.  Moreover,  I  had 
had  the  experience  of  a  long  illness,  and  found,  there- 
fore, renewed  pleasure  in  outdoor  life  as  well  as  in 
a  myriad  of  things  which  are  to  be  seen  in  field  and 
wood,  and  air  and  water.  Mere  science  had  in  it  for 
me  little  that  I  liked,  and  it  was  clear  to  me  that  only 
in  my  own  profession  was  there  what  I  desired — a 
combination  of  ever-changing  science,  and  its  constant 
applications  to  medicine  as  an  art. 

Having  no  wish  to  increase  my  fortune,  I  took  chiefly 
to  consulting  practice,  declining  cases  at  will,  and  was 
lucky  enough  to  obtain  a  good  hospital  position. 

Contented  with  my  daily  work,  and  the  constant 
problems  it  set  before  intelligent  curiosity,  I  lived  at 
tranquil  ease,  my  friends  making  for  me  a  large  part 
of  the  pleasure  of  life.  Some  of  them  I  loved  for 
groups  of  moral  qualities,  some  for  the  mental  food 
with  which  they  stimulated  me.  There  were  others 
who  were  dear  because  they  found  something  in  me  to 
4 


40  CHARACTERISTICS. 

like  and  to  trust  and  to  use,  and  who  themselves  were 
not  in  any  way  remarkably  attractive  except  for  hav- 
ing a  notable  capacity  to  love.  Undoubtedly  there  are 
folks  whom  one  loves  as  one  does  some  quite  useless 
pleasant  dog.  From  all  of  which  it  may  be  clear  that 
I  had  many  friends.  Some  of  them  were  always  in- 
teresting, and  this  is  rare — although  I  may  as  well 
confess  here  that  more  people  have  interest  for  me 
than  is  the  case  with  educated  men  in  general.  Even 
those  who  are  generally  looked  upon  as  commonplace 
often  find  a  warm  corner  at  the  hearth-side  of  my 
heart.  When  friends  die  or  drift  away,  I  like  to  fill 
their  places,  and  hope  when  life  ends  to  find  the  ranks 
as  full  as  in  the  mid-flow  of  existence.  Mrs.  Vincent 
says  that  I  collect  friends  as  a  naturalist  does  flowers. 
The  only  rational  limit  I  can  set  to  an  increase  of  the 
number  of  those  whom  one  qualifies  as  friends  lies  in 
the  fact  that  one  must  contribute  more  or  less  in  the 
way  of  time,  letters,  and  pleasant  service.  Some  need 
little ;  others  insist  on  constancy  of  relation — for  there 
are  genera  and  species  in  friendship.  Of  one  of  them, 
Vincent,  already  mentioned,  I  should  feel  as  sure  if  we 
were  parted  for  half  a  lif e.  He  was  of  the  rare  men 
who  have  intellectual  apprehensions  so  swift  as  to 
seem  instinctive.  While  in  some  matter  of  social  diffi- 
culty, or  of  tangled  business,  I  should  have  slowly 
reasoned  out  my  conclusion,  he  attained  the  same  re- 
sult apparently  without  effort,  and  yet  could  afterward 
give  you  his  reasons.  He  was  a  man  too  sensitively 
reserved  to  admit  many  to  his  friendship,  too  silent  as 
to  his  charities  to  be  known  to  the  world  as  generous. 
His  character  was  indeed  throughout  the  more  beauti- 


CHARACTERISTICS.  41 

ful  for  the  modesty  which  hid  its  values.  He  was  one 
of  the  few  I  ever  knew  who  had  the  art  of  giving,  even 
money,  with  graciousness.  Also,  he  was  master  of 
himself,  body  and  mind.  To  me  he  seemed  the  ideal 
of  modern  common  sense,  with  ever  a  present  possi- 
bility of  chivalric  action  carried  to  the  verge  of  the 
quixotic.  Of  this  man,  in  company  with  a  sculptor, 
now  very  famous,  and  a  scholar,  also  of  the  upper 
rank,  and  already  mentioned,  I  saw  much.  Among 
them  Frederick  Vincent  attracted  me  most.  While 
these  others  had  attained  in  life  all,  or  nearly  all,  of 
what  their  capabilities  made  possible,  he  alone  ap- 
peared to  me  never  to  reach  the  success  which  seemed 
within  the  command  of  his  qualities.  When  I  came  to 
know  that  it  was  his  frail  physical  state  which  set  limits 
to  a  boundless  ambition,  I  loved  him  more  than  ever, 
because  there  was  never  on  his  part  the  least  unmanly 
repining.  In  fact,  life — active  life — was  only  possi- 
ble to  him  on  condition  that  he  lived  with  care  and 
spent  much  time  out  of  doors. 

One  evening  we  met,  as  was  often  the  case,  at  my  own 
rooms.  Three  of  us  being  bachelors  and  only  Vincent 
married,  these  meetings  were  easily  and  often  possible. 

Detained  by  a  consultation,  I  came  in  late  to  find  two 
of  my  three  friends  gathered  about  the  blazing  hickory 
logs  of  my  study  hearth.  The  third,  Clayborne,  was 
as  usual  wandering  about,  now  along  the  coast  of  my 
bookcases,  now  knocking  against  chair  or  table,  a  great 
drifting  hulk  of  a  man. 

•''And  what  have  you  been  discussing?"  I  said. 

"  We  began,"  said  Vincent,  "  with  a  long  screed  from 
St.  Clair.  He  is  laughing  at  Mrs.  B for  having 


42  CHAKACTEKISTICS. 

her  girls  trained  by  a  drill-sergeant  to  have  flat  backs 
— like  West  Point  cadets.  He  insists  that  no  antique 
statue  of  woman  is  erect,  and  he  declares  that  they  all 
droop  like  flowers." 

"  It  was  n't  a  fertile  text,"  said  Clayborne,  "  and  we 
soon  got  through  with  it.  There  is  one  comfort  about 
that  boy  St.  Glair's  futilities  of  speech.  If  he  talks 
often  he  does  n't  talk  long  at  a  time." 

"  Thanks,"  said  St.  Clair.  "  It  was  Clayborne  who 
digressed ;  I  could  have  gone  on  for  an  hour  about  the 
flat  backs  of  what  they  call  '  women '  in  these  days.  I 
wonder  would  Eve  know  her  modern  sisters.  Clay- 
borne  went  off  for  an  unbroken  half -hour  on  the  an- 
cients as  realists.  He  thinks  the  Laocoon  the  finest 
thing  in  plastic  art,  old  or  new.  He  meant,  I  fancy, 
to  start  on  that  as  a  text,  but  the  text  got  in  only  at 
the  end  of  the  sermon.  Realism — I  loathe  the  word, 
and  he  calls  the  Laocoon  realistic." 

"I  do." 

"What,  to  carve  a  snake  as  a  round  rope,  and  to 
give  a  constrictor  serpent  fangs  f  Any  boy  knows 
better  than  that" 

"  Those  snakes  have  no  fangs,"  returned  Clayborne. 

"  Yes,  they  have,"  I  said ;  "  and  in  the  upper  jaw,  in 
the  right  place,  and  one  on  each  side." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Clayborne. 

"And  still  it  is  so,"  returned  St.  Clair.  "  Moreover, 
Clayborne,  although  the  old  sculptors  were  fond  of 
carving  serpents,  I  never  saw  another  example  of  the 
venomous  f  anged  snake  in  any  art  museum." 

"  And  snakes  are  not  round  ? "  said  Clayborne,  ap- 
pealing to  me. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  43 

"  No ;  a  section  of  a  snake  in  motion  or  constricting 
would  be  like  a  half  moon,  and  flattened  on  the  belly 
side." 

"  I  give  up,"  said  the  scholar.  "  I  am  always  ready 
to  yield  to  real  knowledge ;  but — " 

"  Oh,  come  now !  "  cried  St.  Clair.  "  When  you  do 
eat  your  humble-pie  don't  growl  because  it  gives  you  a 
mental  colic." 

"I  am  not  sure  about  it  yet,"  urged  Clayborne. 
"  However,  we  got  off  next  on  to  weariness,  or  rather 
fatigue  of  mind.  Vincent  happened  to  say  that  his 
head  was  tired — his  brain,  I  mean.  St.  Clair  and  I 
can't  understand  what  that  means.  We  do  agree  now 
and  then." 

"  Then,"  said  St.  Clair,  "  we  remembered  what  some 
one  has  said,  that  scholars  who  have  lived  much  in 
Europe  believe  work  to  be  possible  there  at  less  cost  to 
one's  nervous  system  than  in  our  climate." 

"I  said  that  was  absurd,"  said  Clayborne.  "So 
much  thought,  so  much  product,  so  much  tissue 
wasted." 

"Try  to  climb  in  our  summer  climate,  and  on  a 
Swiss  mountain,"  returned  Vincent,  "  and  see  whether 
or  not  more  effort  is  needed  here.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  same  may  be  true  as  to  the  use  of  the  mind." 

"  I  think  that  a  fair  reply,"  I  said.  "  But  also,  to 
generalize,  I  fancy  that  any  given  thousand  Americans 
do  more  work  in  a  year  than  as  many  of  a  like  group 
of  English,  we  may  say." 

"  As  to  this  whole  question,"  said  Clayborne,  "  I  am 
a  bad  witness.  I  cannot  understand  what  a  man 
means  when  he  says  his  brain  is  tired." 


44  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  You  must  have  strained  it  badly  to  know/'  I  re- 
turned. "Sense  of  fatigue  as  referred  to  the  brain, 
and  not  merely  to  eye,  hand,  or  back,  is  hardly  a  nor- 
mal sensation." 

"  I  wonder  is  it  wholly  modern/'  remarked  Vincent ; 
"  and  did  we  Yankees  really  invent  neurasthenia  ? " 

"  If  I  had  Sydenham  here,"  I  replied,  "  I  would  show 
you  what  that  master  in  medicine  said  of  overwork, 
and  the  consequences,  in  Charles  II.'s  time.  While  I 
am  sure  we  have  only  too  many  breakdowns  from  ex- 
cesses in  work,  and  above  all  from  anxiety  with  work, 
I  know  well  enough  that  since  we  discovered,  described, 
and  named  the  condition  of  nervous  exhaustion  it  has 
been  found  to  exist  everywhere  in  Europe." 

"  And  the  remedy  ? "  said  St.  Clair,  who  had  merely 
listened. 

"  Turn  beast,"  cried  Clayborne.  "  Who  ever  saw  a 
horse  with  neurasthenia  ? " 

"Go  back  to  nature,  I  suppose,"  said  St.  Clair.  "Live 
out  of  doors.  Turn  cowboy.  Get  near  the  soil  again. 
Imagine  a  neurasthenic  Sioux  chief." 

"The  remedy  would  destroy  me,"  said  Clayborne. 
"  I  once  camped  out  with  Owen.  Never  was  man  so 
wretched.  My  own  remedy  would  be  change  of  oc- 
cupation for  a  time.  Some  hobby  is  valuable.  If  I 
weary  of  my  work  I  simply  go  and  fuss  over  my  coins. 
There  is  Vincent ;  why  does  n't  he  write  a  play  when 
he  is  tired,  or  hunt  butterflies  ? " 

Vincent  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  I  well  knew 
why.  His  fund  of  physical  energy  barely  sufficed  for 
the  week's  work,  and  left  him  no  available  reserve. 

"  Once,"  I  said,  "  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor  could  not  af- 


CHARACTERISTICS.  45 

ford  to  go  against  the  public  opinion  which  decreed 
that  he  could  not  be  anything  else  but  mere  lawyer  or 
doctor.  Now,  in  our  great  towns  at  least,  these  limi- 
tations are  passing  away.  We  have  more  freedom, 
and  certainly  what  Clayborne  says  is  true :  one  can't 
run  away  always,  and  a  little  canter  on  a  hobby  of 
literature,  science,  or  art  is  usually  possible." 

"  What  is  too  often  wanting  to  the  tired  man,"  said 
Vincent,  quite  sadly,  '4s  the  energy  to  saddle  and 
bridle  and  mount  his  hobby.  Best  is  what  I  want.  I 
stay  in  bed  of  a  Sunday." 

"  It  is  rather  odd,"  said  St.  Clair,  who  was  apt  to  be 
discursive,  "  that  in  literature  the  doctor  so  often  ap- 
pears. There  are  Rabelais,  Keats,  Goldsmith,  Holmes, 
Akenside,  and  more,  if  one  chose  to  think  them  over. 
But  among  notable  poets  who  have  had  legal  training 
one  recalls  only  Goethe." 

"  I  think  that  is  true,"  remarked  Clayborne,  who,  as 
was  common  with  him,  was  still  moving  about,  and 
now  and  then  glancing  at  a  book  on  my  shelves. 

"But  no  great  poet,"  urged  St.  Clair,  "ever  could  be 
long  or  seriously  anything  else.  None  of  those  men 
continued  to  be  doctors.  Akenside  one  need  hardly 
consider.  Poetry  is  an  inexorable  mistress." 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  said  Vincent,  "  what  forms 
of  pursuit  give  on  the  whole  the  largest  bounty  in  the 
way  of  happiness." 

"  The  naturalist's,  I  should  say,"  I  returned. 

"The  artist's,"  cried  St.  Clair.  "I  am  supremely 
happy." 

"  And  you  ? "  said  Clayborne  to  me. 

"  My  life  contents  me,"  I  said.     "  Yes ;  I  am  happy 


46  CHARACTERISTICS. 

in  my  work.  It  admits  of  so  much  intellectual  vari- 
ety, and  there  is  too  the  persistent  daily  work  which, 
like  a  great  fly-wheel,  steadies  all  the  machinery  of 
life." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  could  get  inside  of  any 
other  man's  life." 

"  It  would  not  explain  or  make  easier  your  own  life," 
said  Clay  borne.  "  After  all,  joyousness  is  a  question 
of  temperament.  But,  over  and  above  that,  there  is 
something  to  be  said  as  to  the  pleasurable  quality  of 
men's  pursuits." 

"Are  poets  happy  as  a  rule?" 

"  No,"  returned  St.  Clair ;  "  they  are  the  very  bonds- 
men of  common  sense,  and  that  is  always  unpleasant 
in  its  influence.  They  see  too  clearly  to  be  happy, 
and  feel  too  acutely." 

"  Stuff ! "  cried  Clayborne.  "  The  rule  would  work 
both  ways.  The  trouble  is  that  most  of  them  were 
fools  and  suffered  for  their  nonsense.  The  best  of 
brains  cannot  always  shut  the  door  on  folly.  If  a  man 
enjoys  nature  too  much  to  go  indoors  when  it  rains — 
morally  or  physically  rains — need  he  growl  at  the 
consequences  ? " 

"  And  yet  the  notion,"  I  returned,  "  that  poets,  art- 
ists, and  men  of  science  are  wanting  in  every-day  com- 
mon business  sense  appears  to  me  negatived  by  the 
lives  of  many.  Really,  the  great  poets  and  foremost 
men  of  science  are  always  variously  capable.  They 
fail  in  business  matters  merely  because  they  care  more 
for  other  things.  Whenever  they  have  been  forced  to 
conduct  affairs  they  have  shown  no  want  of  capacity. 
There  is  Goethe  again,  and  Shakspere,  and  Spenser, 


CHARACTEKISTICS.  47 

and  Emerson,  and  in  science  the  noble  list  of  men  who 
have  managed  the  vast  Smithsonian  business." 

"How  we  drift  in  our  talk,"  said  Clayborne.  "I 
think  you  may  be  correct.  But  let  me  go  back  and 
recaU  the  talk  to—" 

"  Recall  it !  "  interrupted  Vincent.  "  You  can't  an- 
chor a  conversation.  It  is  only  when  it  drifts  that  I 
like  it.  Your  serious  talkers  are  too  tiresome.  How 
very  few  good  things  they  say.  How  often  they  must 
re-say  them.  Look  at  any  table-talk,  even  Coleridge's. 
Imagine  these  things  said  to  you  gravely.  Nobody 
talks  that  way  now;  no  one  should.  Think  of  the 
long,  dull  fuses  that  fizzed  gently  between  their  brill- 
iant firecrackers.  These  professors  of  conversation 
are  things  of  the  past.  As  a  rule,  for  good  talk,  you 
must  have  people  used  to  talk  and  to  listen.  They 
must  want  to  amuse  and  be  amused.  You  can't  have 
good  talk  without  good  manners.  For  my  part,  I 
would  rather  take  my  chance  at  table  beside  some 
woman  of  the  world  than  beside  most  of  the  literary 
or  scientific  folks  I  have  known." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  while  St.  Clair  rose 
and  filled  a  pipe,  saying  as  he  dropped  the  match, 
"  That  is  the  reason  why  the  forests  are  so  agreeable." 

"  If  you  want  to  destroy  conversation  toss  a  conun- 
drum into  it,"  cried  Clayborne.  He  detested  lack  of 
clearness  in  verse,  prose,  or  the  talk  of  man. 

St.  Clair  started  up.  "  And  you  call  that  a  conun- 
drum? Do  you  know  any  one  with  the  breeding  or 
manners  of  a  pine  tree ;  and  who  talks  better  ? " 

Vincent  looked  up  at  our  poet-sculptor  with  a  smile 
which  for  a  certain  dignity  and  sweetness  I  never  saw 


48  CHARACTERISTICS. 

the  like  of.  "  My  manners  are  better  and  my  talk  more 
amusing,"  he  cried,  laughing.  "  What  stuff  is  all  this 
modern  nonsense  about  the  relation  of  man  to  nature ! 
It  is  all  manufacture,  all  conventional.  I  love  the 
pleasant  noises  of  trees,  and  wind,  and  waters.  I  like 
them  as  a  child  likes  music — in  a  vague  way. 

I  am  it,  and  it  is  me, 
Earth  and  water,  air  and  sea ; 
I  am  them,  and  they  are  me. 
In  my  soul  the  poplar  shivers, 
la  my  heart  the  ash  tree  quivers, 
And  a  philosophical  search 
Readeth  anguish  in  the  birch." 

We  all  laughed  and  laughed  again,  except  St.  Clair. 

"Does  it  seem  to  you  really  so  absurd,"  he  said,  "that 
the  man  and  the  tree  should  have  mysterious  relation- 
ships ?  Once  they  were  both  atoms  somewhere  in  the 
slime  of  what  you  call  chaos."  Our  friend  was  just 
now  wildly,  delightedly  puzzled  over  the  theories  of 
evolution.  "  This  unity  of  original  product  explains  to 
me  a  good  deal,"  he  added. 

" Does  it? "  said  Vincent. 

"  The  sun  and  moon  shall  fall  a-main 
Like  sower's  seeds  into  his  brain, 
There  quickened,  to  be  born  again." 

St.  Clair  was  now  really  vexed.  He  had  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  but  also  a  childlike  sense  of  annoy- 
ance when  it  was  used  against  him.  "  It  is  easy,"  he 
cried,  "  to  spoil  a  man's  dreams,  to  bruise  his  ideals." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Vincent,  "  that  is  true,  and  you  may 
be  right.  The  relation  of  nature  and  its  voices  to 


CHARACTERISTICS.  49 

man — not  to  all  men — may  be  like  the  relations  of 
music  to  some.  I  say  it  as  a  verity  because  I  have 
no  such  relation  to  music.  I  have  seen  my  wife  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  or  light  of  joy  in  her  face,  when 

L played  Beethoven.     It  was  a  closed  door  to  me. 

I  sat  and  wondered  at  her  passionate  pleasure.  It 
was  to  me  as  are  to  you  the  murmurs  of  brooks,  the 
wind  in  the  pines.  I  marvel  at  it.  I  am  like  the  beg- 
gar on  the  door-step.  I  see  the  house  lighted  up; 
I  hear  merriment  within.  It  is  not  of  my  world ;  I 
gather  up  my  rags,  and  go  on." 

"  There  is  no  real  music  in  nature,"  said  Clayborne ; 
"really  none,  and  rhythm  too  is  of  purely  human 
begetting.  Emerson  guesses  at  the  heart-pulse  as  its 
origin.  Holmes  says  the  easier  rimes  are  born  of  the 
accidental  length  of  respiration." 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  said  I,  "  that  verse  is  ever  a 
birth-gift  ?  Music  may  be,  as  it  seems  to  me.  Some 
idiots  can  sing  distinctly.  I  wonder  if  many  of  the 
great  poets  had  in  very  early  childhood  the  tendency 
to  rime  or  to  speak  rhythmically.  Apart  from  its  in- 
tellectual aspects,  poetry  does  seem  to  me  like  a  dis- 
tinct means  of  expression,  almost  a  distinct  language, 
easy  for  some,  impossible  for  others." 
-/  "  There  is  the  puzzle,"  said  Vincent.  "  You  can't 
separate  the  form-power  from  the  informing  intellect- 
ual capacity  in  poetry.  The  greatest  poets  are  always 
the  greatest  masters  of  verse ;  the  lesser  ones  may  be 
melodious,  but  are  never  capable  of  the  higher  music 
of  verse.  The  architects  of  thought  are  the  master 
builders.  Then,  too,  it  is  a  curiously  dominative  tem- 
perament. I  never  shall  believe  there  was  ever  a 


50  CHARACTERISTICS. 

'  mute  Milton.'  Perhaps  great  creative  musical  power 
is  as  despotic  in  its  order  to  the  man  to  utter  himself. 
What  I  envy  either  is  the  creative  act.  They  must 
enjoy  the  making  of  a  poem  or  a  sonata  with  an  in- 
tensity past  our  conception." 

"  And  now  I  am  out  of  my  depth,"  said  Clayborne. 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  "  that  the  pleasure  of  some  revolu- 
tionizing discovery  must  be  the  equal  of  any  joy  which 
either  poetic  or  musical  creativeness  affords.  To  know 
of  a  sudden  some  far-reaching  law,  some  fact  hidden 
in  solar  space,  or  time-buried;  to  come  on  its  con- 
ception abruptly,  as  between  two  breaths — well,  I 
would  as  gladly  experience  that  as  to  have  written 
'Comus.'" 

"Not  I,"  said  St.  Clair. 

«  Nor  I,"  said  Vincent ;  "  but,  like  Clayborne,  I  have 
not  imagination  enough  to  enable  me  to  conceive  of 
either  as  possible.  I  am  quite  sure  that  as  yet  the 
psychical  share  of  imagination  in  great  material  dis- 
covery has  not  been  fully  appreciated.  In  Goethe's 
scientific  work  it  shows  remarkably.  The  other  side 
is  seen  in  his  poetry,  and  in  Dante." 

"How?  "cried  St.  Clair. 

"You,  at  least,  ought  to  know.  Talk  about  glory 
and  rewards  for  these  men  of  many  crystalline  facets, 
each  with  its  light  and  colors.  They  must  needs  be 
glory  and  joy  enough  to  themselves." 

"  It  is  an  awfully  human  fact,"  I  observed,  "  that 
they  all  craved  recognition." 

"  And  when,"  returned  Clayborne, "  we  see  how  little 
most  men  can  do,  the  absence  of  limitations  in  some 
men  of  genius  appears  incredible.  I  suppose  none  of 


CHARACTERISTICS.  51 

them  equaled  Da  Vinci  in  the  wonderful  variety  of 
gifts — painter,  sculptor,  poet,  architect,  hydraulic  en- 
gineer, anatomist,  physiologist.  What  a  life!  One 
marvels  most  at  the  memory  of  a  man  like  that.  It 
must  have  been  perfect." 

We  all  laughed;  the  speaker  was  a  wonder  of 
memorial  strength.  He  went  on,  "Oh,  I  remember 
well  enough;  but — my  last  word  makes  me  ask  if 
there  ever  was  a  man  with  an  absolutely  perfect 
memory." 

"  That  is  rather  droll,"  said  I,  "  because  I  was  con- 
sulted yesterday  by  a  queer  fellow  who  says  that  his 
memory  is  too  good.  In  a  day  or  two  he  is  to  bring 
me  a  written  statement  of  his  case.  If  you  like  I  will 
read  it  to  you  the  first  time  chance  brings  us  to- 
gether." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  it,"  returned  Vincent.  "  Noth- 
ing seems  to  me  more  improbable." 

As  they  went  away,  he  lingered.  "  I  wish,"  he  said, 
"  you  would  do  for  me  as  you  some  time  ago  said  you 
would,  and  let  me  see  the  inside  of  a  doctor's  life.  I 
mean  as  much  of  it  as  one  can  see.  We  have  talked 
it  over  so  often." 

"  That  is  in  part  possible,"  I  returned.  "  Meet  me 
to-morrow.  It  is  Sunday.  I  am  due  at  St.  Ann's 
Hospital  at  eleven." 

"  Agreed,"  he  said,  and  left  me. 


TV. 


ICENT  was  waiting  for  me  next  day 
in  the  manager's  room  of  the  hos- 
pital. I  said  to  him,  "  If  you  are  to 
excite  no  remark,  look  as  wise  as 
nature  allows,  and  let  me  call  you 
doctor." 

He  nodded,  and  followed  me.  At  the  head  of  the 
stairs  a  young  resident  physician  met  us.  He  carried 
my  case-book,  a  stethoscope,  and  a  percussion-ham- 
mer. The  walls,  like  the  floors,  were  of  exquisite 
cleanliness,  and  unornamented  save  by  portraits  of 
physicians  who  had  gone  their  rounds  for  years  in 
these  wards,  and  at  last  followed  their  many  patients 
out  of  the  world. 

The  young  doctor,  a  favorite  of  mine,  opened  a  door, 
pausing  a  moment  to  say,  "  Joe  is  worse,  sir." 
"  And  Johnson  ?  " 
"Oh,  better;  much  better." 

I  said  to  Vincent :  "  My  young  friend  and  I  differed 
a  little  as  to  a  case.  It  looks  now  as  though  he  were 
right."  The  young  man  glanced  up  flushed  and  glad, 
and  we  went  into  the  ward. 

Here  were  some  twenty  beds,  all  full.  Beside  each 
was  a  little  table,  and,  now,  neatly  tucked  back,  clean 
fly-nets,  it  being  near  to  summer.  The  floor  was  of 


CHARACTERISTICS.  53 

spotless  boards;  the  walls  were  of  a  pleasant  gray 
tone,  and  there  was  ample  light,  and,  of  course, 
abundant  air,  so  that  the  atmosphere  was  without 
odor.  Four  neat,  white-capped,  white-aproned  young 
women,  their  arms  covered  with  protecting  white 
over-sleeves,  moved  to  and  fro  noiselessly.  An  older 
woman  came  up  to  us,  smiling.  I  presented  her  to 
my  doctor. 

"  I  like  my  head  nurse  to  make  the  round  with  me,'' 
said  I.  "  Come,  and  ask  what  questions  you  please, 
doctor.  I  hope  not  to  tire  you;  my  Sunday  visits 
here  are  long  ones.  Here  is  a  case  not  clear  to  me ; 
perhaps  you  can  help  us."  Vincent  preserved  a  per- 
fect gravity. 

"How  are  you,  John?"  I  said.  A  great  stalwart 
lumberman  lay  stretched  out  in  bed  his  full  six  feet 
two. 

"  Look  at  his  face,"  I  said  in  an  undertone. 

"  I  am  no  better,  sir,  and  I  won't  never  be." 

"  A  case  of  pneumonia,  doctor,  and  not  a  bad  one. 
He  is  on  the  way  to  health :  no  pain ;  no  cough ;  pulse 
good;  won't  eat;  thinks  he  will  die.  What  would 
you  do  for  him,  Doctor  Vincent  ? " 

He  replied  without  hesitation,  and  to  my  surprise, 
"  Pitch  a  tent ;  put  him  out  in  the  sun ;  give  him  a 
penknife  and  a  shingle."  The  man  looked  up,  a  quick 
response  in  his  face. 

"  Couldn't  we  manage  it  ? "  I  said  to  my  young  aid. 
"  I  will  speak  to  the  steward." 

"I  hate,"  said  I  aside  to  Vincent,  "to  see  a  man 
bent  on  dying.  They  sometimes  go  unaccountably  to 
death.  I  once  saw  in  Paris  a  man  from  whom  Roux 


64  CHARACTERISTICS. 

had  removed  a  small  tumor  of  no  moment.  The  man 
said  that  he  would  die,  and  the  old  surgeon  remarked 
to  us  that  he  did  not  like  that.  The  patient  was  dead 
in  two  days,  and  no  man  could  tell  then,  or  on  exami- 
nation, what  killed  him." 

"Did  you  ever,"  said  Vincent,  "see  a  man  die  be- 
cause he  willed  to ! " 

"  No,"  I  replied ;  "  nor  escape  death  by  mere  decis- 
ion not  to  die.  The  resolution  to  do  whatever  is  need- 
ful to  get  well,  the  belief  in  its  possibility,  help  men ; 
that  is  all.  I  once  heard  a  man  with  cholera —  a  sturdy 
mechanic — declare  that  he  did  not  mean  to  die,  and 
would  not.  He  tried  to  make  himself  think  he  must 
get  well.  The  thing  was  most  painful." 

"  And  he  died  ? "  said  the  nurse. 

"Yes;  he  died." 

In  the  next  bed  a  young  carpenter  lay  ill.  He  had 
the  clearly  cut  American  features,  neat  mustache,  and 
Vandyke  beard  so  much  worn  by  his  class. 

"  How  are  you,  Joe  ? "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  better ;  a  lot  better." 

I  went  over  his  case  with  care.  "  Listen  here,"  I 
said  to  Vincent.  My  friend  bent  down  awkwardly, 
listened  a  moment,  and  then  followed  me  away. 

"  What  was  that  I  heard  like  a  rattle  ? " 

"Yes,  a  death-rattle — a  sentence  of  death  in  clear 
language,"  I  answered. 

"  It  is  strange  to  have  a  man's  lungs  talk  to  one.  It 
is  a  language.  Shall  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  he  asks  me.    I  have  told  his  relatives." 

"And  will  he  ask?" 

"  Probably.    A  hundred  years  hence  or  sooner  we 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  55 

will  cure  such  cases.  I  hate  these  inevitables  in  medi- 
cine— cancer,  consumption.  Come,  here  is  something 
better." 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said  to  a  pale,  sallow  creature  in 
the  next  bed  but  one.  He  shook  his  head.  I  took  a 
slate  off  his  bed,  and  wrote,  "  How  are  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  better,"  he  said.  "  I  understood  twice  yester- 
day. Then  it  went." 

"Back  better  too?  Have  you  books  enough?"  I 
wrote. 

Vincent  lifted  one  from  his  table ;  it  was  a  harrow- 
ing tale  of  piracy — poor  trash. 

"  I  will  send  him  '  The  Three  Musketeers/  if  you  will 
let  me,"  said  my  friend. 

I  went  on :  "  He  is  word-deaf.  He  hears  but  can- 
not interpret.  The  connecting  nerve-threads  between 
word-memory  (I  mean  ideas  gotten  by  hearing)  and 
his  receptive  organs  are  broken,  but  he  has  word-vis- 
ion ;  words  which  he  reads  are  still  usefully  dealt  with 
by  the  mind.  He  fell  a  hundred  feet  from  a  scaffold 
and  broke  his  back.  He  is  going  to  recover.  It  is 
curious  that  he  has  no  memory  of  the  events  which 
preceded  his  fall  for  two  hours.  It  seems  as  if  time 
V  were  needed  to  fix  the  records  of  memory.  I  have 
seen  this  often.  Some  physical  shock  interferes  with 
the  permanence  of  the  delicate  impression  made  on  the 
brain-cells.  It  is  like  interrupting  the  fixation  of  a 
photo  picture.  It  is  so  in  battle.  The  hurry  of  emo- 
tions, the  swiftness  of  the  march  of  events,  the  mad 
fury  of  fight,  have  a  like  effect,  and  hence  with  the 
coolest  the  memory  of  the  details  of  a  battle  are  apt  to 
be  imperfect.  But  let  one  of  these  men  be  wounded 
5 


66  CHARACTERISTICS. 

so  as  to  make  him  a  passive  spectator,  and  thencefor- 
ward he  remembers  all  that  goes  on." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Vincent,  "if  death,  too,  is  like  the 
shock  of  a  fall,  and  crushes  out  all  remembrance  of  the 
past?" 

My  young  resident  doctor  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
quick  glance  of  curiosity,  and  said,  "Do  you  recall,  Dr- 
North,  that  girl  we  had  here  last  year  who  forgot  only 
people,  and  ceased  to  know  even  her  lover?" 

"Yes;  and  everything  else  remained  as  before." 

"Too  much  memory,  or  too  little,"  said  Vincent. 
"Who  could  choose?" 

"I  would  take  too  much,"  said  the  resident. 

"Wait  till  you  are  forty,"  said  Vincent. 

"Come,  doctor,"  I  said,  "it  is  not  the  curiosities  we 
came  to  see ;  you  will  find  them  in  every  ward.  They 
have  their  own  value  to  us ;  but  now  we  can't  talk  of 
them."  So  saying,  I  turned  to  a  bed  near  by.  On  the 
table  were  several  books — a  volume  of  Shakspere,  and 
a  novel  or  two  from  the  hospital  library,  the  Bible  (as 
on  all  the  tables),  and  some  magazines.  The  sick  man 
was  about  thirty-five  years  old,  clean-shaven,  large  of 
feature,  but  very  pale,  and  huge  of  limb  and  hand.  As 
we  came  near  a  smile  of  singular  sweetness  welcomed 
me.  "My  friend  Dr.  Vincent,"  said  I. 

The  sick  man  put  out  his  thin  hand  and  greeted  us 
in  turn,  saying,  "  I  'm  what  they  call  an  interesting 
case,  sir."  I  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Mason,  doctor,  is  a  workman  in  iron.  He  made 
the  beautiful  hammered-iron  fire-screen  in  my  study." 

"I  was  a  good  workman,"  he  said,  "but  I  shall 
never  strike  iron  again,  sir — will  I,  doctor?  Oh,  I 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  57 

have  asked  that  so  often,  and  I  ought  not  to.  I  beg 
pardon."  There  was  fitness,  almost  grace  of  manner, 
in  the  apologetic  checking  of  himself. 

"Mason  was  hurt  in  the  back,  doctor,  by  the  fall  of 
a  bar  of  iron.  He  knows  how  much  I  want  to  help 
him,  and  I  am  not  without  hope ;  but  it  may  be  long." 

"Oh,  I  could  wait,  but  I  am  that  savage  and  irrita- 
ble_I_ » 

"His  wife  was  here  yesterday,"  said  my  aid  in  an 
undertone. 

"Books  enough,  Mason?"  I  said. 

"Yes;  and  to  spare,  sir,  and  flowers  too.  Mrs. 
L takes  care  of  that." 

"Sit  down,"  I  said  to  Vincent,  "and  talk  to  him 
while  I  see  a  case  or  two.  He  has  made  friends  with 
books  since  he  has  been  in  bed." 

"That  ;s  true,  sir.  It  seems  to  me  so  queer  now  that 
I  never  heard  of  Scott  before ;  and  Hamlet,  I  know  a 
man  just  like  him.  Ever  read  Hamlet,  sir?" 

Vincent  sat  down  as  I  moved  away,  and  while  I  ex- 
amined two  new  cases  I  noticed  that  he  was  deep  in 
interested  talk  with  Mason.  By  and  by  I  saw  him 
shake  hands  with  the  sick  man  and  heard  him  say, 
"Yes ;  I  will  come  again,"  and  then  he  joined  me  as  I 
sat  down  by  the  bed  of  a  lad  of  twenty. 

"Is  this  a  new  case!"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Then  let  me  hear  how  you  go  to  work." 

"I  will  try  to  tell  you ;  it  is  not  very  easy  without 
too  much  talk.  Give  me  the  bed-card,"  I  said  to  my 
resident  doctor.  "  Here.  This  lad  came  in  yesterday ; 
on  his  card  you  see  his  name,  date  of  admission,  a 


58  CHAKACTEEISTICS. 

place  for  the  diagnosis,  and,  below,  lines  left  for  diet 
and  change  of  treatment ;  also  here  is  a  chart  of  the 
heat-curves.  In  this  ward-book  the  resident  has  written 
out  every  detail  as  to  his  habits,  inheritance,  illness. 
Take  this  card  and  run  your  eye  over  it.  It  will  save 
time.  It  is  a  guide  to  the  note-takers  so  that  a  certain 
order  may  prevail  in  our  histories  of  cases." 

"I  see,  I  see.  No  organ  is  left  unexamined.  But 
how  can  you  get  the  time?  And  you  must  have  a 
whole  arsenal  of  tools,  if  I  may  judge  by  the  recent 
survey  made  of  my  own  throat  and  eyes." 

I  laughed,  and  my  resident  doctor  regarded  this 
other  physician  with  suppressed  amusement,  being 
himself  a  youngster  who,  by  habit,  eased  the  frictions 
of  lif  e  with  the  precious  ointment  of  mirth. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  can,  of  course,  make  personally 
the  whole  study  of  a  case.  As  a  rule,  here,  where 
there  is  so  much  to  be  done  that  has  to  be  done 
thoroughly  and  rapidly,  one  man  goes  over  the  eyes 
and  other  sense-organs,  and  one  over  the  secretions, 
which  may  exact  hours  of  work." 

"And,"  added  Vincent,  "there  are  electric  testings, 
I  see.  And  reflexes !  What  on  earth  are  they?" 

This  doctor  who  asked  what  a  "reflex"  meant  was 
fast  becoming  too  much  for  my  resident,  whose  eyes 
were  flashing  with  mirth,  and  narrowing  to  imminence 
of  laughter.  I  touched  his  arm,  as  a  warning,  and 
went  on :  "  Reflexes  ?  Oh,  reflex  acts.  I  strike  on  a 
spot,  say,  below  the  knee,  and  a  certain  muscle  in- 
stantly and  in  health  always  replies  by  a  movement. 
There  are  many  such.  I  might  call  them  muscle-in- 
stinct acts." 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  59 

"I  see,"  returned  Vincent.  "It  becomes  clearer  to 
me  if  I  think  of  some  of  our  instinctive  acts  as  intel- 
lectual reflexes.  There  ought  to  be  a  new  word — in- 
stinctions." 

And  now  my  resident  cast  a  look  of  solemn  wonder 
at  this  reasoning  ignoramus. 

"Let  us  put  that  to  Clayborne,"  I  said.  "I  want  to 
show  you  how  complete,  how  painstaking  is  our  work ; 
how  efficient  it  is.  If  that  sick  boy  were  lord  of  a 
guinea  a  minute  no  more  could  be  known  of  his  case, 
no  more  could  be  done  for  it.  Let  us  talk  about  this 
again  when  we  meet.  A  hospital  is  a  fertile  text. 
We  are  at  our  best  here.  Illness  in  a  private  dwelling 
loads  one  at  times  with  needless  perplexities." 

"One  word  more,  North.  I  had  an  idea  that  you 
often  made — well — made  what  people  call  a  diagnosis 
by  intuition  j  at  least  one  reads  of  such  things." 

"Rather  by  tuition  so  complete  that  the  intellectual 
act  for  the  moment  escapes  analysis.  Your  idea  be- 
longs to  the  medicine  of  fiction.  "We  do  something 
like  that,  of  course.  A  man  walks  in,  and  we  guess  at 
a  look  by  his  walk  that  he  has  disease  of  certain 
columns  of  the  spine.  It  appears  like  magic  to  a  lay- 
man, but  after  that  comes  the  real  and  careful  work. 
What  is  the  cause,  the  man's  history,  his  general  state 
of  health — these  are  the  valuable  things  at  which 
one  cannot  merely  guess  and  rest  tranquil.  It  is  true 
that  often  we  reason  from  dubious  premises  to  con- 
clusions as  doubtful,  and  that  requires  a  mind  of  very 
peculiar  type.  It  is  quite  remote  from  the  mathematic 
faculty." 

"Yes  j  I  do  not  well  understand  how  a  great  mathe- 


60  CHARACTERISTICS, 

matician  could  ever  be  a  physician  of  force.  Galileo 
gave  up  medicine,  I  believe." 

"The  present  case  seems  clear  to  me,"  I  said,  and,  as 
we  moved  away,  "I  wish  it  were  not.  He  has  an 
aneurism  of  the  arch  of  the  aorta,  the  great  artery. 
It  compresses  nerves  that  give  motor  activity  to  the 
muscles  of  speech." 

"Then  death  is  certain?" 

"No;  not  quite.  There  is  a  chance,  a  small  one; 
and  he  is  young.  That  will  help,  except  that  it  will 
make  him  impatient,  and  he  must  have  six  months  of 
absolute  rest  in  bed,  and  heroic  doses  of  certain  saline 
medicines." 

"I  see.  And,  pray  tell  me,  do  the  young  or  the  old 
bear  sickness,  long  sickness,  best?" 

"Oh,  that  is  a  matter  of  temperament,  of  moral 
construction.  Children  well,  I  think;  women  too 
well." 

"Too  well?" 

"Yes ;  to  get  a  man  into  bed  and  a  woman  out  of 
bed  is  almost  equally  difficult.  But  come;  I  am 
through.  What  about  Mason,  Vincent?" 

"Oh,  that  poor  fellow.  You  know  people  talk  to 
me  about  themselves.  It  is  a  doubtful  privilege." 

"Yes ;  and  he  is  as  reserved  and  self-contained  as  a 
well-bred  lady,"  I  said. 

"He  told  me  of  the  wife,  who  is  weak  and  giddy- 
minded  ;  of  his  six  children,  like  to  starve  or  to  go  to 
the  poorhouse.  I  shall  see  them  to-morrow.  Who  is 
this  Mrs.  L he  talks  about?" 

"Oh,  an  angel,  a  heart  of  gold.  I  wish  we  had  a 
hundred  like  her." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  61 

"It  is  awful,  isn't  it,  to  see  these  many  cases  which 
only  money  can  help  ?  A  mere  question  of  money." 

"Not  altogether,  but  largely  j  yes,  very  largely. 
Look  down  this  ward.  I  could  point  you.  out  a  dozen 
whose  cases  could  be  helped  by  money.  This  man 
needs  a  few  weeks  in  the  country  to  complete  his  cure, 
that  man  a  month  of  salt  air.  Here  is  one  so  troubled 
because  he  will  lose  his  place  that  cure  becomes  diffi- 
cult. Here  we  are  like  to  fail  with  another  because 
he  does  not  know  how  to  feed  his  children  while  he  is 
ill.  The  beneficiary  associations  help.  Women  like 

Mrs.  L ,  or  as  like  as  God  allows,  come  between 

these  people  and  their  wants — wants  which  in  illness 
you  and  I  do  not  know.  These  wrecks  of  sturdy  men 
talk  to  such  women  as  they  rarely  talk  to  us.  Women 
are  the  natural  confessors  of  men ;  but,  after  all,  there 
is  always  the  lack  of  money.  If  I  could  do  it,  I  would 
give  every  hospital  a  contingent  fund — some  thousands 
a  year — for  just  such  wants.  And  the  people  you  see 
here  are  mostly  mechanics — rarely  mere  laborers — 
proud  as  only  the  American  is,  loathing  charity,  and 
having  to  be  taken  with  tact.  And  now  good-by ;  I 
must  have  talked  you  tired,  and  said  but  half." 

"No ;  you  have  brought  me  close  to  many  things  of 
which  I  had  no  clear  conception.  But  it  does  seem  to 
me  that  yours,  my  dear  Owen,  must  be  of  all  modes 
of  usefulness  the  saddest." 

"No ;  we  were  not  sad  in  war,  or  we  were  rarely  so, 
with  comrades  f  ailing  around  us  every  month,  and  this 
seems  to  me  much  like  it.  One  gets  used  to  it.  Who 
is  permanently  saddened  by  the  ever-repeated  inevita- 
ble ?  None  but  the  morbid,  I  fancy.  What  I  person- 


62  CHARACTERISTICS. 

ally  hate  is  defeat,  by  death,  by  incurable  ailments.  I 
have  the  feeling,  which  all  physicians  ought  to  have, 
that  every  one  should  get  well;  that  all  disease  is 
curable  somehow.  It  is,  I  suspect,  the  intellectual 
defeat  I  so  dislike ;  but  there  is  a  host  of  compensa- 
tions." 

"Thank  you.  You  have  really  opened  to  me  a 
vista  of  the  physician's  life  which  is  worth  a  good 
deal." 


V. 


WEEK  later  I  met  Vincent  one 
evening  in  the  street.  "Come,"  lie 
said;  "I  am  going  to  see  Clayborne. 
I  fancy  we  shall  find  St.  Clair  also. 
Have  you  seen  our  iron-worker  to- 
day?" 

"Yes;  and  he  is  really  better;  your  talk  did  him 
good.  What  a  tonic  is  hope.  I  fancy  you  helped 
him  more  than  you  know.  He  tells  me  you  are  about 
to  secure  a  patent  for  him.  Is  it  worth  while  ?" 

"Yes;  I  have  submitted  his  model  to  S .    He 

tells  me  it  is  a  very  novel  invention,  and  will  bring 
him  a  good  deal  of  money.  It  has  been  a  pleasant 
task  for  me.  The  American  of  his  class  is  so  interest- 
ing, so  self-respecting,  and  so  just;  I  may  add,  so 
well-mannered.  But  here  we  are." 

Clayborne  was  a  bachelor,  older  than  the  rest  of  us, 
and  a  man  of  large  fortune.  We  were  shown  up-stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  the  whole  area  of  which  (and 
it  was  large)  was  occupied  by  his  library.  From  floor 
to  ceiling,  all  around,  were  books.  They  overflowed 
on  to  the  floor,  the  chairs,  the  many  tables.  Although 
he  was  as  to  his  writings  a  historian,  his  tastes  in  liter- 
ature were  nearly  limitless,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
he  read  everything  save  modern  verse.  The  last  novel, 


64  CHARACTERISTICS. 

the  last  magazine,  the  newest  work  of  travel,  even 
science,  seemed  to  interest  him.  For  modern  poetry 
alone  he  had  no  strong  liking.  A  slow  thinker,  he  was 
also  defective  as  to  his  power  to  enjoy  wit  or  humor, 
and  was  apt  laboriously  to  analyze  a  jest.  I  should 
prefer  to  say  that  he  enjoyed  mere  rollicking  fun,  ex- 
amined wit  with  a  kind  of  scornful  indifference,  and 
was  simply  inaccessible  to  humor.  Although  a  kindly 
man,  he  lived  too  much  alone  with  his  own  very  keen 
intelligence.  He  was  apt  to  reason  himself  out  of  all 
beliefs  in  the  need  of  attending  to  the  duties  of  social 
and  public  affairs  with  an  ease  favored  by  his  liking 
for  books  and  a  lonely  contemplative  existence.  He 
had  had  fancies  for  several  women,  but,  as  Vincent 
once  remarked,  he  was  apt  to  set  his  cool  brain  to 
hatch  the  eggs  of  a  warm  heart,  and  then  was  sur- 
prised to  find  his  eggs  addled. 

When  we  entered  the  great,  airy  room,  with  its  busts 
of  philosophers  and  its  legions  of  books,  St.  Clair  was 
seated  at  an  open  window,  and  the  stalwart  owner  was 
walking  to  and  fro  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
He  was  discoursing  volubly  to  the  sculptor  on  Greek 
and  medieval  art.  Now  and  then  he  paused  to  turn 
up  a  gas-jet;  for  he  enjoyed  a  superabundance  of 
light,  and  even  on  a  hot  night  in  July,  despite  our  en- 
treaties, delighted  to  illuminate  his  study  as  if  for  a 
winter  ball. 

Both  men  greeted  us  with  the  conventional  "How 
are  you?"  Vincent  had  a  mental  habit  which  in 
some  men  would  have  looked  like  affectation.  He 
was  apt  to  pick  up  for  examination  any  usual  word  or 
phrase,  and  say  about  it  something  most  unusual.  It 


CHARACTERISTICS.  66 

made  him  as  a  talker  very  suggestive  to  quick-witted 
people ;  but  to  others  this  habit  was  apt  to  bring  em- 
barrassment, silent  dismay,  or  one  of  those  acquiescent 
phrases  which  kill  conversation. 

He  said  now,  "Why  does  every  one  say,  'How  are 
you?  How  do  you  do!'" 

"Why  not?"  said  St.  Clair. 

"Why  not?"  cried  Vincent,  dropping  into  a  chair. 
"Am  I  always  to  be  reminded  that  I  am  mortal?  that 
I  may  be  ill  any  day  ?  It  is  a  bit  of  universal  bad 
manners." 

"Of  good,  I  should  say,"  returned  Clayborne. 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  cried  Vincent.  " It  is  my 
friend's  business  to  say  how  well  I  look ;  certainly  it 
is  an  impertinence  in  a  mere  acquaintance  to  enter 
into  the  question  of  my  health.  I  wonder  how  it  be- 
gan ?  I  should  like  to  know  if  an  Indian  or  a  Hotten- 
tot asks  how  his  savage  neighbor  is." 

"The  mass  of  humanity  must  like  it,  or  the  custom 
would  die,"  said  our  host,  reflectively. 

"Bad  manners  never  die,"  returned  Vincent,  smiling. 

"And  what  is  the  best  test  of  good  manners?"  I 
said. 

"Capacity  to  listen  agreeably/  said  Clayborne.  We 
all  laughed,  for  the  speaker  was  at  times  given  to  dis- 
course. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  laugh,"  he  continued.  This 
provoked  a  new  outbreak. 

"The  hardest  test  of  manners  is  the  capacity  to 
submit  to  an  obligation  with  graciousness,"  I  ventured. 

"I  should  say,"  said  St.  Clair,  "the  power  to  oblige 
with  grace." 


66  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

"I  can  do  neither,"  cried  Clayborne.  "I  hate  being 
obliged,  and  I  hate  to  oblige,  because  there  is  no  end 
to  it.  The  man  who  obliges  gets  in  debt.  There  is 
nothing  obliges  like  obligation." 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Vincent. 

"Yes;  both  embarrass  me — to  oblige  and  to  be 
obliged." 

Said  Vincent:  "It  is  the  complexities  of  life  which 
annoy  us.  The  man  who  gives  with  joyous  simplicity 
gives,  as  we  all  should  give,  for  his  own  sake.  The 
simply  imaginative,  kindly  man  expects  to  do  his  own 
thankfulness.  'The  Lord  assisteth  the  simple.'  It  is 
self -analysis  which  breeds  annoyance.  I  was  walking 
in  the  Tyrol  years  ago,  and  found  a  charming  wayside 
fountain  over  which  the  giver  had  set  the  words — I 
can  translate  them  roughly  — 

'Ye  who  drink, 
Pause  and  think.' 

An  old  Englishman  who  came  up  as  I  contemplated  the 
inscription  said  to  me,  'That  man  had  bad  manners.'" 

"The  point  is  too  fine  for  my  use,"  growled  Clay- 
borne. 

Said  St.  Clair :  "There  is  an  equally  odd  inscription 
on  the  marble  floor  of  a  lovely  spring  in  an  English 
wood  I  know.  It  puzzled  me." 

"And  now  the  talk  has  gone  astray,"  said  Clayborne, 
discontentedly. 

"And  so  it  should,"  I  replied. 

"  But  St.  Clair  always  gets  adrift." 

"He 's  a  poet,"  laughed  Vincent.  "I  should  define  a 
poet  as  a  man  with  buttons  to  his  mental  garments 


CHARACTERISTICS.  67 

and  no  buttonholes.  He  is  always  fumbling  at  the 
impossible." 

"Now,  wait  a  little,"  cried  the  poet,  mildly  wrathful 
"Who's  adrift  now?" 

' '  Oh,  your  fountain,"  said  I.  "  What  was  the  inscrip- 
tion ?  Never  mind  these  fellows." 

"It  is  not  worth  quoting,"  said  St.  Clair. 

Clayborne  had,  without  intention,  a  special  power 
to  annoy  him.  Looking  up,  however,  St.  Clair  caught 
Vincent's  appearance  of  utmost  interest.  It  seemed 
to  say,  "You  are  just  now  the  only  person  in  the  world 
worth  hearing."  It  was  an  inherited  trait  of  manners 
— a  family  jewel. 

St.  Clair  went  on:  "I  make  too  much  of  a  trifle. 
On  the  marble-floored  spring,  in  letters  of  red  stone, 
were  the  words,  'Tell  us  your  secrets.'  At  each  side 
the  spring  rolled  forth  a  bountiful  volume  of  water, 
which,  as  I  looked,  seemed  to  contort  and  shake,  and 
at  times  to  hide  the  legend." 

"What  did  it  mean?"  said  Clayborne. 

"Was  it,"  I  returned,  "advice  to  confess  to  the 
waters  ?  That  were  safe  indeed." 

"Or,"  said  St.  Clair,  "was  it  a  mere  pretty,  fancy- 
born  appeal  to  them  to  tell  us  their  secrets?" 

"Ah,  if  they  but  would!"  murmured  Vincent.  "I 
am  for  St.  Glair's  idea  of  it.  When  you  make  a  foun- 
tain, master  sculptor,  set  around  it  that  verse  of  the 
19th  Psalm.  It  is  not  there  applied  to  the  waters,  but, 
like  all  high  poetic  thought,  is  capable  of  many  appli- 
cative uses.  I  quote  the  Prayer-book  version.  It  is, 
I  think,  'There  is  neither  speech  nor  language;  but 
their  voices  are  heard  among  them.' " 


68  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"That  would  be  charming,"  said  St.  Clair. 

Clayborne  picked  up  his  unwieldy  length,  and,  as 
Mrs.  Vincent  liked  to  say,  added  on  his  legs  last,  and, 
having  put  himself  together,  went  to  a  corner,  whence 
he  took  two  or  three  books  in  turn,  and  while  we  went 
on  with  our  chat  looked  them  over.  Presently  he 
came  toward  us,  for  we  had  dropped  at  last  into  cane 
easy-chairs,  and  were  all  smoking  together  near  the 
window.  "Vincent  is  apt  to  get  his  quotations  incor- 
rect," he  said.  "The  words  apply,  of  course,  to  the 
verse  before,  'One  day  telleth  another;  and  one  night 
certifieth  another,'  and  also  to  the  preceding  verse. 
I  should  hesitate  to  use  it  as  Vincent  suggests." 

"But  I  should  not,"  cried  St.  Clair. 

"King  James's  Bible,"  Clayborne  went  on,  "says, 
'  There  is  no  speech  nor  language  where  their  voice  is 
not  heard.'  And  here,  this  will  interest  you.  My  old 
friend,  Leeser's  translation  for  use  among  Hebrews, 
has  it,  'There  is  no  speech ;  there  are  no  words ;  their 
voice  is  not  heard:  but  their  melody  extendeth 
through  all  the  earth,  and  to  the  end  of  the  world 
their  work/  and  so  on.  For  force,  beauty,  and  clear- 
ness this  is  better  than  our  version." 

"Let  me  look  at  it,"  said  Vincent 

"This  is  the  octavo,"  said  Clayborne;  "the  quarto 
edition  is  full  of  notes,  and  more  interesting." 

"I  see,"  returned  Vincent,  as  he  glanced  over  the 
book.  "The  renderings  of  the  poetic  forms  of 
Deborah's  grand  ballad-poem  are  admirable.  I  will 
borrow  it,  Clayborne." 

"I  have  had  it  bound  in  two  volumes,"  returned 
the  scholar.  "  I  dislike  thick  books,  fat  books,  books 


CHARACTERISTICS.  69 

which  do  not  lend  themselves  to  the  hospitality  of  the 
hand.  I  hate  to  lay  a  book  open  on  the  table  and  see 
it  shut  itself  up.  If  a  man  lives  with  books,  he  gets 
sensitive  about  their  dress  and  their  manners." 

"How  poetical  he  is  !"  said  St.  Clair,  who  was  apt 
to  have  a  long  memory  for  small  annoyances. 

"Is  that  your  idea  of  poetry  ?"  growled  our  host. 
"Take  both  volumes,  V." — he  had  a  fashion  of  call- 
ing us  by  the  initial  letter  of  our  names, —  "both, 
please.  And  don't  forget  to  return  them.  I  hate  to 
lose  books;  but  to  lose  one  volume  and  to  have  the 
other  as  a  perpetual  reminder  of  the  baseness  of  man- 
kind is  unendurable." 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  I,  "S ;s  keeping  one 

of  your  volumes  of  'Cardan/  two  years  ago,  and  your 
sending  him  the  rest  with  a  note  to  the  effect  that  if 
he  would  not  return  volume  one,  it  were  better  that 
the  family  were  kept  together?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  indeed.  And  then  he  sent  them  all  back. 
I  knew  he  would,  but  the  volume  he  had  kept  so  long 
was  horribly  abused.  Actually  the  man  had  made 
penciled  comments  on  the  margins." 

"That  does  seem  incredible,"  I  said. 

As  to  Vincent,  he  smiled  in  his  quiet  way  when  re' 
quested  to  be  sure  to  return  the  books. 

"What  did  a  man  like  S want  with  the  book?" 

said  St.  Clair.  "I  know  of  Jerome  Cardan  in  a  dim 
sort  of  way.  He  was  a  doctor,  I  think." 

"Oh,  but  he  was  a  master  of  algebra  too,"  said  I, 

"and  S is  a  mathematician.  And  a  banker,  too, 

by  all  that  is  strange.  Mathematics  is  his  hobby.  He 
is  a  common  fellow,  coarse  of  grain,  strong  of  head. 


70  CHARACTERISTICS. 

A  hard  business  man,  and  horribly  exact  in  his  deal- 
ings j  full  of  prejudices ;  full  even  to  hostility  for 
those  who  differ  with  him,  but  very  generous.  I 
know  him  well." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  your  full  estimate  of  us," 
cried  Vincent,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  can  understand  the 
perfect  compatibility  of  generosity  with  exactness, 
even  cruel  exactness,  in  business.  It  is  not  a  rare 
type." 

"And  to  me,"  said  St.  Clair,  "it  is  incomprehensible." 

"I  can  at  least  illustrate  it,"  I  returned.  "On  one 
occasion  I  knew  him  to  ruin  a  man  by  insisting  on  the 
return  of  money  lent.  He  declined  to  wait,  took  the 
last  cent  of  what  was  due,  and  a  month  later  lent  the 
penniless  man  a  really  large  sum  on  easy  terms  to 
start  him  in  business  again." 

"I  know  of  a  case  quite  as  illustrative,"  said  Vin- 
cent. "A  friend  of  mine,  a  physician,  did  a  rich  man- 
ufacturer a  vast  service  in  the  way  of  his  profession. 
When  the  obliged  man  asked  for  his  account,  he 
requested  a  deduction  for  prompt  payment,  and  this 
being  declined,  grumbled  over  the  amount.  The  doc- 
tor was  immovable.  'You  are  at  liberty,'  he  said,  'to 
pay  nothing  or  all.'  'But  this  is  business,'  answered 
the  other ;  'why  not  discuss  it  like  any  other  business  ?' 
'I  am  not  a  business  man,'  said  my  friend;  'I  belong 
to  a  profession.  I  sell  that  which  no  man  can  weigh 
or  measure.'  Finally  the  bill  was  paid,  and  then  the 
manufacturer,  suddenly  changing  his  tone,  said,  'Well, 
now  that  the  business  is  completed,  I  should  like  you 
to  accept  this  as  a  slight  proof  of  our  gratitude.'  It 
was  a  check  for  thrice  the  amount  of  the  debt.  The 


CHARACTERISTICS.  71 

doctor  said,  'No ;  I  never  allow  a  man  to  overpay  me.' 
The  next  day  the  check  was  sent  to  a  hospital  in  which 
the  physician  was  interested." 

"I  like  that  definition  of  a  profession,"  said  Clay- 
borne.  "I  think  I  can  guess  who  the  doctor  was." 

Vincent  looked  up  with  a  faint  smile. 

"The  story  is  true,"  I  said.  "How  difficult  it  is  for 
us  to  comprehend  these  men  who  are  born  and  bred 
in  a  commercial  atmosphere.  The  type  of  mere  busi- 
ness men,  devoid  of  this  man's  generosity,  is  a  more 
unpleasant  one.'' 

"Oh,  I  know  them,"  cried  Vincent,  "and  I  see  them, 
too,  as  you  do  not,  on  the  business  side.  They  have 
set  ideas  and  utter  absence  of  tastes  or  pursuits  outside 
of  the  game  of  money-making.  I  mean  that  they  have 
in  life  no  other  game.  They  do  not  read,  or  shoot,  or 
fish,  or  even  ride.  They  have  no  liking  for  books,  or 
art,  or  music.  Travel  soon  bores  them,  and  brings  no 
new  resources." 

"The  nemesis  comes  with  loss  of  health,"  said  I,  "or 
with  some  threat  of  incapacity  to  work.  Then  the 
doctor  says,  travel,  and  either  the  man  does  not  care 
for  that,  or  will  not  obey,  or  goes  like  a  bird  in  its 
flight  from  land  to  land,  and  comes  back  to  his  desk 
unutterably  weary.  It  is  useless  to  say,  shoot,  fish, 
ride.  He  has  but  one  taste  in  life,  and  habit  has  made 
all  else  impossible." 

"To  do  him  justice,  it  is  not  always  the  money  but 
the  game  he  loves,"  remarked  Vincent.  "I  think  the 
gospel  of  play  needs  to  be  preached  in  this  land  of 
ours." 

"The  moral  is,"  said  Clayborne,  "have  a  hobby." 
6 


72  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

"And  learn  to  ride  it  early,"  said  Vincent,  rising. 
"I  must  go."  And  he  left  us. 

For  a  few  minutes  we  smoked  in  silence.  Then 
Clayborne  said,  "V.  has  left  his  books." 

"Yes,"  I  returned;  "when  he  put  them  on  the  table 
I  saw,  as  he  pushed  them  aside,  that  he  would  not 
take  them." 

"Why?" 

"You  asked  him  to  be  sure  to  return  them." 

"I  did.     What  then  ?    What  of  that  ?" 

"He  did  not  like  it.  He  is  as  sensitive  as  a  girl,  and 
as  reserved  as  a  man  can  be." 

"And  I  annoyed  him.  I  will  send  him  the  quarto 
to-morrow,  and  ask  him  to  keep  it.  How  queer  for  a 
man  of  his  force." 

"His  sensitiveness  is  a  part  of  his  force.  He  sees 
and  feels  as  by  instinct  all  the  shades  of  difference  in 
men's  ways  and  conduct.  His  reserve  hides  the  effect 
on  himself.  He  is  master  of  his  moods,  however  they 
are  caused.  Socially,  as  now,  he  may  act  on  his  too 
ready  sense  of  the  meaning  of  a  word  or  a  phrase 
lightly  dropped ;  but  even  this  is  rare,  and  in  his  pro- 
fession his  fineness  of  perception  never  does  him  harm 
or  injures  his  value." 

"  I  see,"  returned  Clayborne,  thoughtfully.  "  Go  on ; 
it  interests  me,  well  as  we  know  him." 

"I  could  wish  that  he  had  the  art  to  appear  unre- 
served," I  said.  "Reserve  is  disliked  by  men  in  gen- 
eral. Familiarities,  even  from  friends,  I  fancy  Vincent 
finds  it  hard  to  bear." 

"And  yet,  what  friend  can  compare  to  him?"  said 
St.  Clair,  who  was  like  a  child  with  those  he  loved. 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  73 

"He  is  manly,  brave,  and  generous  as  few  men  are. 
And  what  I  like,  too,  is  a  slight  old-fashioned  quaint- 
ness  about  him  quite  undefinable." 

"His  ears  should  burn  by  this  time,"  said  I.  "And 
where,  indeed,  as  he  would  say,  did  that  familiar  phrase 
arise?" 

"Do  one's  ears  burn  at  praise?"  said  Clayborne. 

"Praise  me  a  little,  and  try,"  said  St.  Clair.  "Come, 
North,  it  is  time  we  went  home.  I  wanted  to  go  back 
to  that  fountain,  but  it  is  too  late." 

"I  meant,"  said  I,  "to  add  a  word  to  what  you  said 
of  Vincent's  manners.  It  is  the  manner  of  his  man- 
ners which  makes  him  so  charming.  Many  men  have 
good  manners ;  few  men  have  manner." 

" Too  fine  for  me,  that,"  cried  Clayborne.  "What  is 
manner?" 

"The  grain  of  the  wood  under  the  polish,"  returned 
St.  Clair. 

"The  modification  which  character  gives  to  man- 
ners," said  I. 

"Shade  of  Chesterfield,  help  me!"  laughed  Clay- 
borne.  "  Get  ye  gone,  both  of  you,  or  I  shall  go  mad." 


VI 


was  some  weeks  before  we  were  all 
together  again.  St.  Clair  had  asked 
us  to  come  to  see  certain  clay  models 
he  had  been  at  work  upon,  and  thus 
it  chanced  one  night  that  we  met  at 
his  studio.  This  was  a  long  building 
of  brick,  and  only  a  story  high.  The  rooms  were  sepa- 
rated only  by  heavy  curtains,  and  the  roof  was  broken 
by  skylights.  The  place  was  ablaze  with  gas-jets  as  I 
entered  the  waiting-room,  which  was  full  of  bas-reliefs, 
statuettes,  and  pictures — the  gifts  of  artist  friends. 
St.  Clair  was  walking  to  and  fro. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  I  said,  as  I  greeted 
him. 

"  They  are  worth  more.  I  was  thinking  how  Michel- 
angelo would  have  enjoyed  this  good  pipe  of  tobacco. 
As  to  Shakspere,  he  must  have  smoked.  I  should  like 
to  know  who  of  the  poets  smoked.  Lamb  alone  has 
sung  of  it.  Lowell  loved  a  pipe :  so  does  Tennyson ; 
but  neither  ever  sang  its  praise." 

"  Certainly  you  are  wrong  as  to  Lowell,"  I  said.  "  I 
recall  a  charming  passage  of  his  about  the  solace  of 
the  pipe.  It  is  an  immense  help  to  good  talk,  makes 
decent  pauses,  gives  time  to  reflect,  and  what  a  re- 
source it  is  when  a  good  solidly  constructed  bore  has 
you  in  his  coils." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  75 

"  You  speak  feelingly.  When  shall  you  write  that 
little  essay  about  bores  we  talked  of  ? " 

"  Oh,  who  can  say  ?  When  I  shall  have  written  my 
natural  history  of  fools.  I  began  it  once,  but  was 
checked  at  the  outset  by  the  need  to  define  a  bore.  It 
is  more  mysterious  than  it  seems.  We  are  all  bores  at 
times.  I  am,  I  know.  I  am  acquainted  with  two  very 
able  and  original  thinkers  who  never  talk  very  long, 
and  never  pay  long  visits,  but  who  nevertheless  inde- 
scribably bore  me.  I  made  out  at  last,  as  regards  one, 
that  it  was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice ;  and  as 
to  the  other,  that  it  was  the  excessive  slowness  of  his 
talk." 

"  The  man  who  bores  one  the  worst,"  said  St.  Clair, 
"the  through-and-through  bore,  is  the  man  who  as- 
sumes the  utter  absence  of  capacity  on  your  part  to 
imagine  or  to  know  what  is  easily  imagined  or  known. 
He  begins  with  the  Ark,  or  the  Fall  of  Man,  when  he  is 
about  to  relate  how  he  slipped  on  an  orange-peeling." 

"  I  know,"  said  I.  "  We  have  a  style  of  professional 
bore  we  call  a  case-doctor,  who  is  always  relating  to 
you  cases  just  in  that  fashion.  As  to  the  fool  business, 
that  is  simpler.  There  is  the  foolish  fool,  the  fool  who 
is  a  good  fellow,  the  ass  fool,  and  the  fool  finely  en- 
dowed with  obstinacy — the  mule  fool,  and  the  middle- 
aged  woman  fool.  They  are  all  first  cousins  of  the 
bores." 

"And  which  am  I?"  cried  Vincent,  as  he  entered 
with  Clayborne. 

"  The  reverse  of  all  folly,"  I  cried. 

"IT  By  George !  If  you  had  my  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  Fred  Vincent  you  would  hardly  say  so." 


76  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

"  Envy  no  man,"  said  Clayborne,  "  who  is  not  some- 
times a  fool.  The  thing  is  to  know  it.  Your  true  fool 
never  does.  Sickness,  my  dear  Owen,  must  present 
you  with  some  interesting  varieties  of  the  genus  fool." 

"  Yes,"  I  returned ;  "  the  hysterical  fool  is  of  all  the 
worst.  How  about  the  statues,  St.  Clair  ?" 

"  Come  in.    They  are  only  huge  sketches  as  yet." 

"We  followed  him  into  the  middle  room,  where,  amid 
plaster  legs,  arms,  torsos,  and  medallions,  were  three 
tall  formless  things  draped  in  wet  gray  cloths.  About 
them  lay  chisels,  molding-tools,  buckets,  and  troughs 
of  damp  clay. 

"  Do  you  recall,"  said  St.  Clair  to  me,  "  that  a  year 
ago  you  were  here  when  I  was  modeling  my  Venus  ? " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  You  inquired  of  me  how  the  female  form  would 
look  in  a  masculine  attitude  like  that  of  the  gladiator 

striking  with  the  cestus.  I  asked  Miss  S ,  the 

model,  to  take  the  attitude.  I  was  struck  with  its 
beauty,  and  a  month  ago  I  made  use  of  it,  or  began 
to.  It  is  a  Roman  lady,  in  the  days  of  the  decadence, 
boxing.  You  know  it  became  the  strange  fashion  to 
imitate  the  gladiators.  Look ! "  And  at  this  he  cast 
off  the  wet  covering. 

A  young,  nude,  and  beautiful  woman  was  striking 
exactly  as  does  the  trained  boxer.  The  face,  somewhat 
large  of  feature,  was  proud,  sensual,  and  cruel.  The 
muscles  were  rather  too  strongly  marked  for  beauty, 
but  the  long,  sinuous  curves  from  shoulder  to  foot  were 
of  marvelous  vigor. 

"  It  has  its  moral,"  said  Vincent,  gravely. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  sculptor;  "I  hope  so." 


CHAEACTEKISTICS.  77 

Then  we  were  silent  a  moment,  and  he  went  on. 

"  It  had  a  curious  effect  on  my  model.  Miss  S is 

a  perfectly  good  girl,  like  many  of  our  models,  and 
queerly  full  of  the  art  sayings  and  criticisms  of  a  dozen 
studios.  She  said  she  did  not  like  it,  and  I  really  think 
was  angry,  but  I  could  get  nothing  more  out  of  her." 

"  One  might  guess  why  she  disliked  it,"  said  Vin- 
cent. "It  is  a  terrible  conception.  Let  us  see  the 
other.  I  am  like  your  model,  I  hate  it." 

"  And  I  may  in  a  week,"  returned  St.  Clair,  as  he 
removed  a  second  cloth,  and  looked  around  at  us, 
smiling. 

Four  armed  Greeks  bore  on  their  shoulders  a  shield 
on  which  lay,  passive  in  death,  the  body  of  a  young 
man  slain  in  battle.  The  beardless  face,  still  in  the 
relaxation  of  death,  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  shield. 
The  features  wore  the  expressionless  calm  of  eternal 
rest  from  strife.  I  remarked  on  the  success  of  the 
rendering  of  this  difficult  expression,  or  simple  lack  of 
expression,  which  I  had  seen  on  so  many  battle-fields. 
It  is  not  lasting,  and  it  is  not  common. 

"  But,"  said  Vincent,  "  are  not  men,  killed  with  the 
sword,  apt  to  show  pain  in  the  lines  of  the  face  after 
death?" 

"Really,"  I  said,  "so  few  men  are  killed  with  the 
/  sword  or  bayonet  in  modern  warfare  that  it  is  rather 
hard  to  answer  you.  For  the  artist  this  is  of  little  mo- 
ment. Men  killed  instantly  by  bullets  sometimes  pre- 
serve for  a  time  precisely  the  expression  of  the  moment, 
and  no  doubt  you  have  all  seen  those  photographs  of 
/  the  dead  at  Gettysburg,  where  some  of  them  remain 
in  exactly  the  postures  of  their  last  act." 


78  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  No,"  said  Clayborne.     "  How  strange !  " 

"  It  appears,"  I  continued,  "  to  'be  a  sudden,  indeed, 
an  almost  instantaneous,  rigor  mortis.  Usually  the  dead 
grow  rigid  after  some  hours.  Previous  fatigue  is  said 
to  have  to  do  with  this  early  and  abrupt  rigidity.  The 
effect  is  ghastly.  One  of  our  greatest  generals  *  told 
me  that  at  a  spring  in  Georgia  he  halted  to  water  his 
horse,  and  called  to  a  man  kneeling  with  his  head  at 
the  water-level  to  move  and  make  way  for  him.  As 
he  did  not  stir,  an  aide  dismounted  and  spoke  to  him. 
He  still  remained  motionless,  and  it  was  then  seen 
that  while  in  the  act  of  kneeling  to  drink  a  bullet  had 
crashed  through  his  brain,  and  he  had  stayed,  as  if  of 
stone,  in  the  attitude  in  which  the  deadly  messenger 
of  fate  found  him." 

"  I  recall  your  having  mentioned  this  before,"  said 
Clayborne.  "You  spoke  then  of  an  essay  upon  the 
subject." 

"Yes;  by  Surgeon  John  H.  Brinton — a  most  cu- 
rious record." 

"  I  once  chanced,"  said  Clayborne,  "  to  mention  it  to 
General  Grant.  He  said  that  it  could  not  be  true,  as 
he  had  seen  numberless  battle-fields,  but  had  never 
noticed  a  single  instance  of  a  man  shot  retaining  his 
posture.  I  replied  that  General  Sheridan  had  told  me 
he  had  many  times  seen  it,  and  spoke  of  Brinton's  pa- 
per. General  Grant  replied  at  once  that  what  these 
two  men  said  they  had  noticed  must  be  correct,  but 
that  it  was  strange  that  he  himself  should  never  have 
had  his  attention  called  to  what  was  so  singular  a 
fact." 

*  Sherman. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  79 

"  The  singularity,"  I  replied,  "  is  indeed  in  his  failure 
to  see  what  must  have  been  before  him  many  times. 
He  must  have  been  lacking  in  the  power  of  minute 
observation,  or  rather  in  that  automatic  capacity  to 
note  details  amidst  such  scenes,  which  some  possess." 

"  He  might,"  said  Vincent, "  have  been  too  profoundly 
absorbed  by  the  greater  problems  with  which  he  had 
to  deal." 

"  No ;  it  was  want  of  the  naturalist's  habit  of  observ- 
ing without  effort  of  attention,  and  in  part  defect  of 
interest  in  the  unusual.  He  saw,  but  was  not  im- 
pressed, and  so  took  away  no  remembrance  of  what 
impressed  others.  Certainly  it  was  not  the  mere  ab- 
sorption in  greater  matters.  He  was  almost  abnor- 
mally unimpressible.  Neither  sudden  deaths  of  masses 
of  men,  nor  sudden  reverses,  disturbed  his  mind.  I 
have  known  him  to  discuss  breeds  of  horses  with  in- 
terest while  a  battle  was  going  on." 

As  I  talked,  and  after  I  ceased,  we  moved  about  the 
group  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  presently  Vincent 
said,  "  The  charm  of  the  thing  is  in  the  bearers  of  the 
dead.  It  is  not  a  calamity  for  them.  The  young  hero 
goes  home  on  his  shield  from  victorious  strife,  dead 
with  honor.  The  contrast  of  his  set,  still  face  with  the 
look  of  triumph  in  their  features  is  really  a  noble  suc- 
cess in  art,  and  there  is,  too,  some  remnant  of  the  pas- 
sion and  wrath  of  fight  still  suggested  in  the  lower 
facial  lines  of  the  living  bearers.  I  congratulate  you, 
St.  Glair  5  it  is  a  poem  in  clay.  The  epitaph  of  the  dead 
man  is  in  their  faces." 

St.  Clair  was  delighted.  "  You  have  seized  my  mean- 
ing precisely,"  he  said.  "  My  chief  trouble  was  in  the 


80  CHARACTERISTICS. 

management  of  the  arm  which  hangs  over  the  shield. 
It  does  not  yet  satisfy  me,  and  to  finish  it  in  marble 
will  be  difficult." 

"  Had  you  good  models  ?  "  I  said.  "  The  four  men 
are  remarkably  individualized,  both  as  to  form  and  ex- 
pression. One  is  much  younger  than  the  others,  and 
his  face  is  distinctly  more  sad." 

"  Might  be  a  brother  of  the  dead  man,"  said  Vincent. 

"Precisely,"  returned  St.  Clair.  "What  charming 
critics  you  fellows  are !  As  to  models,  I  was  fairly 
well  off  j  I  had  two  brothers  of  Miss  S— — ." 

"The  shield  is  not  correct  as  to  form,"  said  Clay- 
borne. 

"  That  may  be  true,"  returned  the  sculptor. 

"  Nothing  seems  to  me  more  strange,"  I  said,  "  than 
the  life  of  a  female  model.  And  yet  great  ladies  have 
been  willing  to  be  models." 

"  What  you  say,"  returned  St.  Clair,  "  recalls  a  rather 
singular  story,  which  came  to  my  knowledge  in  Italy 
years  ago.  Come  into  the  outer  room ;  it  is  less  warm 
there,  and  we  can  talk  at  ease.  The  third  figure  is  un- 
finished, and  does  not  please  me.  It  is  after  Brown- 
ing's poem  of  '  Saul.'  No ;  I  won't  show  it,  at  least  not 
to-night.  Come." 

We  followed  him  into  the  outer  room,  and  settled 
ourselves  on  lounges  or  easy-chairs,  pipe  in  hand. 

"  And  now  for  the  story,"  said  I. 

"!T  was  in  Florence,"  he  said,  "years  ago.    The 

sculptor  N ,  at  present  a  man  of  world-wide  fame, 

was  just  rising  into  notice.  He  was  desperately  poor, 
proud  as  only  an  impoverished  noble  can  be,  and  as 


CHAKACTEKIBTICS.  81 

handsome  as  one  of  my  young  Greeks.  His  absorption 
in  his  art  was  something  past  belief.  He  lived  in  it, 
and  for  it,  and  neither  man  nor  woman  seemed  to  at- 
tract him  save  in  their  relation  to  his  work.  I  remem- 
ber once,  after  an  evening  at  the  theater,  being  amused 
to  discover  that  he  did  not  know  what  opera  had  been 
sung,  his  attention  having  been  entirely  captured  by 
the  lines  of  the  neck  of  a  woman  in  a  box  near  by. 

"  To  cut  a  long  story  short,  the  young  widow  of  an 
old  Neapolitan  prince  fell  madly  in  love  with  him,  and, 
to  my  surprise,  I  learned  that  he  was  to  marry  her.  He 
was  rather  cool  about  it  when  I  congratulated  him, 
and  so  the  affair  ran  on  for  some  months,  the  woman 
evidently  much  the  more  interested  of  the  two. 

"  One  night,  at  an  open-air  concert,  he  was  talking 
to  me  excitedly  of  his  new  statue — a  vestal  virgin,  a 
partly  draped  figure.  I  had  seen  his  sketches,  and  an- 
ticipated a  triumph  of  original  work  in  its  completion. 
Certainly  the  idea  was  novel.  The  vestal  was  asleep 
in  her  chair  beside  the  dying  altar-fire  she  had  been  set 
to  guard.  A  tender  smile,  perhaps  the  dream-gift  of 
rorbidden  love,  was  on  her  face — a  charming  concep- 
tion. He  told  me  he  had  had  several  models,  but  that 
all  lacked  the  dignity  and  refinement  of  a  Roman  pa- 
trician. He  foresaw  failure,  and  wailed  in  an  outspoken 
Italian  way.  What  was  the  world  to  him?  What 
was  anything,  with  this  fate  before  him,  to  know  he 
might  realize  his  vision  of  chastity  and  loveliness,  and 
to  find  it  eluding  him  ?  There  were  models  in  Rome, 
but  he  had  no  means  to  seek  or  bring  them.  I  offered 
help  as  delicately  as  I  could,  and  he  resented  it  almost 
as  an  insult. 


82  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"'Do  you  suppose/  said  he,  'the  Princess  N 

would  not  help  me  if  I  asked  her  ?  I  would  die  first ! 
Money !  I  wish  she  had  none.' 

" '  Hush ! '  I  said ;  '  some  one  will  overhear  you.  You 
have  so  much  in  life — your  art,  your  growing  fame,  a 
noble  woman,  love,  youth.' 

"  '  And  what  are  these  ? '  he  cried,  bitterly.  '  What 
is  anything  to  me  ?  What  is  youth  or  fame  ?  What 
is  she  compared  to  my  art?  Do  you  suppose  any 
woman's  love  can  compensate  me  for  what  I  am  losing  ? 
These  dreams  must  be  born  into  marble  or  they  be- 
come as  wind-torn  mists,  and  fade  away.  I  have  had 
this  bitterness  before,  and  love!  you  talk  to  me  of 
love ! ' 

"'Nonsense,'  I  said;  'you  cannot  love  as  a  man 
should  love — as  that  woman  is  worthy  to  be  loved.' 

"  He  started  up. 

"  'Love  her  as  I  love  my  art?  Not  I.  The  mortal 
before  the  enduring?  Not  I.' 

"  He  was  too  passionately  moved  to  hear  the  quick 
rustle  of  garments  behind  us.  But,  turning  my  head, 
I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  the  Princess  retreating  swiftly. 
A  week  later  I  met  him  radiant  and  joyous.  As  he 
took  a  seat  beside  me  at  a  cafe,  he  cried : 

" '  I  have  it !  The  clay  is  nearly  done.  Count  R 

has  bought  it,  and  I  am  to  put  it  into  marble  at  once.' 

«< And  the  model?'  I  said. 

"  'Ah,  thereby  hangs  a  tale,  as  you  English  say.  The 
day  after  I  saw  you  the  Princess  left  Florence.  She 
returns  next  week.  It  is  strange  how  she  disturbs  my 
use  of  the  power  which  I  know  is  in  me.  I  felt  free 
once  more.  You  will  think  that  horrible ;  it  is  true. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  83 

Well,  the  day  I  bade  her  good-by  I  found  a  peasant 
woman  waiting  in  my  studio.  She  was,  to  my  amuse- 
ment, masked,  and  carried  a  little  slate,  like  Ursula, 
the  dumb  model  in  Rome.  On  the  slate  was  written : 
"  I  am  a  modeL  My  brothers  insist  that  my  face  shall 
not  be  seen.  I  can  come  daily  for  a  week."  I  said : 
"  Well,  here  is  the  statue  in  the  rough.  Go  back  of 
the  curtain;  take  this  veil  stuff;  arrange  yourself; 
and  we  will  see."  Presently  she  came  in,  still  masked 
and  took  instantly  the  pose  of  my  vestal.  I  was  struck 
as  dumb  as  she.  An  arm  and  shoulder  are  bare ;  the 
left  arm,  gathering  the  drapery,  lies  across  the  waist ; 
the  limbs  are  partly  draped;  the  feet  are  in  little 
sandals  I  had  had  made.  Anything  more  gracious, 
more  virginal,  man  never  saw.  I  asked  no  questions, 
but  went  on  as  if  I  were  inspired.  No  model  I  can 
recall  so  caught  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  If  the  ghost 
of  some  patrician  girl  of  Rome's  noblest  had  come  to 
help  me,  it  could  not  have  been  more  wonderful  It 
was  not  a  model ;  it  was  a  vestal.  The  seventh  day 
she  did  not  appear,  and  that  is  the  queerest  of  all,  be- 
cause I  had  agreed  to  pay  her  then,  and  her  terms  were 
unusually  moderate.  However,  it  is  done,  or  nearly 
done ;  I  can  do  without  her — but — ' 

" 'But  what r 

" '  Oh,  I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  her  again. 
That  is  all.' 

" '  And/  I  said, '  when  does  Princess  N return  ? ' 

" '  To-morrow.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her.  My  mind 
is  at  ease  now ;  and  how  much  it  will  please  her ! ' 

"  We  met  again  in  three  days.  He  was  wild  with 
anger. 


84  CHARACTERISTICS. 

" '  She  is  gone ! '  he  said.  '  Come  and  gone.  Gone  to 
Constantinople,  they  said,  and  thence  to  the  East.  Not 
a  word,  not  a  note.  I  had  written  to  her  at  Naples,  but 
had  no  reply.  Yesterday  I  called,  and  was  told  she 
was  not  at  home ;  and  to-day,  that  she  left  last  night.' 

"  I  said  that  it  did  seem  strange  to  me,  and  that 
something  certainly  would  explain  it  in  a  few  days  j 
but  nothing  did." 

"WELL,"  said  Clayborne,  "is  that  all?" 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  don't  understand  it ! " 
cried  St.  Clair. 

"  Yes.    It  seems  to  me  entirely  without  ending." 

The  rest  of  us  laughed.  Clayborne,  a  most  intelli- 
gent being,  was  subject  at  times  to  total  eclipses. 

"Perhaps,"  said  St.  Clair,  "the  sequel  may  help  you. 

Three  years  later  the  Princess  N married  Count 

von  C ,  the  German  cavalry  general,  and  a  man  in 

every  way  charming.  Still  later,  at  the  sale  of  the 

effects  of  Count  R ,  the  Princess  bought  my  friend's 

vestal,  outbidding  an  English  duke  and  a  French 
banker.  I  was  told  that  she  keeps  it  in  her  own  bou- 
doir, and  that  no  visitors  see  it." 

"  And  is  that  a  true  story  ? "  said  Vincent. 

"Why  ask?"  cried  St.  Clair. 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to  know  if  the  man  really  did  not 
know  or  ever  guess  who  his  model  was.  It  seems  in- 
credible." 

"  I  never  asked  him." 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"I  see  now,"  said  Clayborne,  and  was  noisily  con- 
gratulated on  his  acuteness  amidst  storms  of  laughter. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  85 

"Did  I  not  once  tell  you,"  said  the  object  of  our 
mirth,  "  that  at  times  all  of  us  are  subject  to  attacks 
of  folly — idiocy,  if  you  like.  Vide  Newton  and  the 
cats." 

"Do  you  suppose  the  reverse  applies  to  the  fool?" 
laughed  Vincent. 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  in  a  way,  up  to  a  certain  or  uncer- 
tain limit.  A  friend  of  mine  once  made  a  clever  enigma. 
It  was  correctly  answered,  and  that  in  a  moment,  by  a 
rather  dull  school-girl  and  by  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
of  American  writers,  but  by  no  one  else." 

"  Leave  out  the  headings  of  a  good  many  poems  I 
know,"  said  Clayborne,  "  and  see  if  you  have  not  good 
enigmas." 

"  Let  us  hear  your  enigma,"  said  Vincent. 
"  Certainly,"  said  I.     "  By  the  way,  to  justify  Clay- 
borne,  I  may  as  well  say  that  it  was  really  lines  on — " 
"  Oh,  don't  teU !  "  cried  St.  Glair. 
"  Well,  the  author  saw  that  without  the  heading  it 
was  a  clever  enigma.    I  believe  it  has  not  been  in 
print. 

"A  simple  go-between  am  I, 
Without  a  thought  of  pride ; 
I  part  the  gathered  thoughts  of  men, 
And  liberally  divide. 
I  set  the  soul  of  Shakspere  free, 
To  Milton's  thoughts  give  liberty, 
Bid  Sidney  speak  with  freer  speech, 
Let  Spenser  sing,  and  Taylor  preach. 
Though  through  all  learning  swift  I  glide, 
No  wisdom  doth  with  me  abide." 

''What  nonsense !  "  said  Clayborne.  "And  the  an- 
swer?" 


86  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

"Don't  tell!"  cried  St.  Glair.  "Let  us  ask  Mrs. 
Vincent." 

"Agreed,"  said  I. 

"  As  you  like,"  added  Clayborne ;  "  but  to  go  back  a 
little.  There  is  some  element  of  luck  in  the  guessing 
business,  almost  the  chance  falling  upon  the  clue; 
and  as  to  the  reverse  cases  of  which  you  spoke,  there 
are  instances  of  the  single  poem  of  value  a  man  writes, 
the  one  speech  of  force  coming  from  men  who  were 
before,  or  after,  incapable.  Take  the  stray  passages 
in  books,  otherwise  valueless,  as  the  guess  at  the  true 
theory  of  the  circulation  by  Servetus.  If  my  memory 
served  me  better,  I  could  quote  no  end  of  such  cases. 

Talking  of  memory,  H told  me  once  that  he  could 

never  remember  his  own  poems — I  mean  so  as  to  re- 
peat them  accurately.  That  seemed  odd  to  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  I.  "  He  has  in  mind  a  multitude 
of  versions,  variations,  and  changes.  It  is  like  the 
want  of  clearness  which  is  caused  by  the  superposition 
of  photographic  images." 

"That  must  be  it.  And,  by  the  way,  North,  you 
promised  us  a  sketch  from  the  man  who  has  the  curi- 
ous complaint  of  too  good  a  memory.  Is  that  alone 
as  a  case,  or  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  like  instance  ? " 

"Yes ;  the  late  C P told  me  he  knew  well 

a  French  savant  who  was  troubled  by  the  perfection  of 
his  memory.  He  forgot  nothing.  The  words  a  pass- 
ing friend  said  in  the  street,  the  editorial  he  read  to- 
day, the  lecture  he  heard  a  week  or  five  years  ago  were 
all  alike,  and  equally  ready  to  turn  up  in  mind  distinct, 
or  capable  of  being  repeated  word  for  word.  His 
childish  fears,  emotions  experienced  years  before,  were 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  87 

in  the  same  way  competent  to  trouble  him  in  all  the 
acuteness  of  their  first  presence.  Unlike  my  patient, 
this  man,  a  member  of  the  Academy,  was  a  person  of 
great  intelligence,  and  had  his  memorial  stores  some- 
what under  control.  About  my  case  there  is  an  ele- 
ment of  morbidness,  and  certainly  only  a  moderate 
amount  of  mental  force." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Clayborne,  "that  a  curious 
essay  could  be  written  about  the  people  who  possessed 
an  excess  of  one  quality  of  mind  without  the  balancing 
faculties  which  act  as  critical  or  controlling  forces.  I 
can  conceive  of  a  man  with  a  really  good  intellect 
without  imagination,  or  of  a  strong  mind  devoid  of 
power  to  love." 

"  Like  a  cherub — a  winged  brain  and  no  heart,"  said 
St.  Clair. 

"  Delightful !  "  cried  Vincent.  "  And  again  there  is 
the  man  of  imagination  without  critical  intelligence." 

"  But  how  is  it,  North,  as  to  people  with  excessive 
sensory  powers?  Are  they  apt  to  be  as  clever  as 
others?" 

"No;  hardly,"  I  replied,  a  little  in  doubt.  "The 
cases  I  have  seen  of  extraordinary  sight,  hearing,  or 
smell  have  been  in  hypnotized  or  hysterical  folks,  or 
in  people  in  some  way  diseased.  I  TmvtTknown  per- 
sons who  could  hear  what  was  said  in  the  next  room ; 
others  who  could  detect  by  smell  to  whom  garments 
belonged  which  had  been  laundried.  Now  that  you 
raise  the  question,  it  does  seem  strange  that  our  senses 
should  sometimes  in  disease,  or  morbid  conditions,  at- 
tain a  perfection  beyond  that  which  under  any  educa- 
tion they  can  reach  in  health." 
7 


88  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Your  examples  serve  at  least  to  show  what  we 
might  be,"  said  Clayborne.  "  There  are  some  curious 
speculations  in  this  direction  in  Taylor's  'Physical 
Theory  of  Another  Life.' " 

"  But  what  about  your  case  ? "  said  St.  Clair. 

"  I  have  it  here,"  said  I.  "  It  is  rather  long,  but  you 
can  smoke." 

"  Let  me  quote  first,"  said  Vincent,  "  the  reflection 
of  Emerson,  ' A  pity  that  the  insanities  of  the  insane 
are  not  complementary,  so  that  we  could  house  two  of 
them  together.'  That  is  about  his  phrase.  I  fancy  he 
referred  to  the  cranks  who  tormented  him." 

"  And,"  said  St.  Clair,  "  who  have  no  dead  point  like 
an  honest  working  crank." 

"I  must  not  let  Vincent  begin  the  subject  of  cranks," 
I  said,  "or  we  shall  sit  all  night.  But  as  Vincent 
quoted  that  suggestive  thinker  I  was  reflecting  upon 
the  fact  that  while  we  accept  individuality  as  a  thing 
certain  for  all  men,  and  cease  to  wonder  at  its  immen- 
sity of  variation,  we  rarely  remark  upon  the  equal  in- 
dividualization  of  man's  many  faculties — the  distinct- 
ness of  quality  in  the  different  little  workmen  who 
haunt  the  factories  of  the  brain.  And  then  the  won- 
der of  it !  To  see  these  brain-cells  and  fibers  so  nearly 
alike  that  while  the  convolutions,  the  weight,  and  the 
gross  form  of  the  low  criminal  brain  and  the  brain  of 
a  Newton  are,  within  limits,  different,  these  tiny  crea- 
tive or  reflective  cells,  these  little  masses  of  nerve-mat- 
ter that  think,  suffer,  remember,  and  love,  and  always 
in  their  own  individualized  way,  are  so  much  alike  in 
the  best  and  the  worst  brains  that  the  grouped  cells 
that  made  '  Hamlet '  could  not  be  distinguished  by  any 


CHARACTERISTICS.  89 

material  feature  from  those  which  gave  us  '  Proverbial 
Philosophy.' " 

"  Or  '  Leaves  of  Grass,' "  said  Clayborne. 

"  Bet  you  anything  you  never  read  either,"  said  St. 
Clair.  "  '  Leaves  of  Grass '  and  Tupper !  There  was 
a  bore." 

"  There  are  no  literary  bores,"  retorted  Clayborne. 
"  No  book  need  bore ;  you  can  always  cut  a  book." 

"  Or  not  cut  it,"  I  laughed. 

"  Shame !  "  cried  Clayborne. 

"Shall  I  help  you?"  said  St.  Clair. 

"  Oh,  I  saw  it.     I  really  did,"  said  Clayborne. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  cried  St.  Clair,  rising  to  fill  his  pipe 
anew.  "But  to  end  these  metaphysical  fancies.  It 
does  seem  strange  to  a  man  dealing  with  the  ma- 
terial outside  human  make,  that  while  every  inch  of 
a  man's  skin  varies  so  that  you  can  swear  to  it  as 
belonging  to  this  or  that  man,  and  to  no  one  else,  the 
material  within  his  skull,  which  at  least  represents  him 
as  to  his  highest  qualities,  should  be  to  appearances 
so  unindividual,  and  vary  only  a  little  as  to  quantity, 
or  only  a  little  as  to  gross  form." 

"  There  must  be  more  essential  variations,  unseen  as 
yet,"  said  Vincent. 

"  Yes  j  it  is  we,  the  critics,  who  fail,"  I  replied. 

"As  the  mere  materialists  always  will,"  cried  Vin- 
cent. "  But  what  does  St.  Clair  mean  by  every  inch  of 
us  differing?" 

"  I  mean  our  surfaces.  You  can  see  it  if  you  get  a 
thousand  men  to  press  each  his  forefinger  on  a  bit  of 
slightly  smoked  card.  No  two  will  be  identically  the 
same." 


90  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  Delightful ! "  said  Vincent.  "  Sounds  like  a  bit  of 
'  Gulliver's  Travels.' » 

11  Oh,  it  is  true ;  it  has  been  studied,  I  believe,  with 
care.  What  about  that  biography  ? " 

"  It  is  rather  late,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  returned  St.  Clair.  "We  can  smoke, 
as  you  said." 

"  No  j  we  have  talked  away  all  the  time  I  can  now 
spare.  Let  us  adjourn  to  Vincent's,  say  to  Sunday 
night.  We  shall  have  Mrs.  Vincent  then,  and  I  want 
her  to  hear  it." 


vn. 


F  there  be  such  a  thing  as  friend- 
ship at  first  sight,  then  it  happened 
to  me  when  first  I  saw  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. I  was  still  in  bed,  and  at  times 
suffering  in  such  ways  as  are  hid- 
eous to  recall,  and  Fred  had  asked 
leave  to  bring  his  young  wife  to  see  me.  I  was  glad, 
for,  as  I  have  said,  to  be  ill  is  a  feminine  verb,  and 
agrees  best  with  that  gender.  I  was  justified  in  her 
choice  of  time  and  a  companion.  She  would  have  none 

of  Fred,  and  went  quietly  and  asked  Mrs.  L to  go 

with  her,  and  also  she  sent  me  word  it  would  be  at 
twilight,  and  named  the  hour,  and  was  there  as  it 
struck — all  of  which  goes  to  show  that  a  goodly  part 
of  the  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends  materializes  here 
below  in  the  form  of  a  woman. 

She  said  no  word  as  to  my  wound  or  my  ailments, 
and  yet,  often  since,  I  have  seen  her  profuse  in  senti- 
ment and  demonstrative  in  manner,  being  a  creature 
of  many  available  moods.  She  talked  pretty  gossip, 

while  Mrs.  L sat  by  and  wondered  a  little  at  the 

light  folly  of  the  chat.  But  when  Anne  Vincent  left 
me,  I  was  happier  and  more  hopeful.  At  the  door  she 

turned,  Mrs.  L having  preceded  her,  and  said, 

"And  now  we  are  friends,  you  know."    And  with  a 


92  CHARACTERISTICS. 

smile  on  her  lip,  and  with  eyes  quite  overfull,  added, 
"  I  am  very  exacting.  Good-by." 

Her  goodness,  her  gentle  follies,  and  the  like  we 
shall  know  better  as  these  rambling  pages  go  on. 

The  drawing-room  was  unlighted,  as  it  was  May  and 
warm,  and  Mrs.  Vincent,  with  St.  Clair  and  Clayborne, 
sat  at  the  open  window,  which  overlooked  large  garden 


"  How  silent  you  all  are !"  said  I. 

"  That  is  only  because  we  do  not  speak  aloud,"  said 
St.  Clair,  with  a  laugh.  "We  are  busily  talking  to 
ourselves.  For  my  part,  when  I  think  that  I  came  out 
of  silence  and  shall  return  to  it  again,  I  feel  what  a 
vast  balance  there  is  against  me. 

"  Oh,  is  there  not  enough  of  silence  here, 
Of  joy  unspoken,  of  unworded  cheer  ?  n 

Claybome  muttered  in  his  great  beard  something 
about  grown-up  children,  and  then  said  aloud,  "  It  is  a 
Persian  poet  who  says : 

"Silence  is  the  seed  of  thought." 

"  Well,  then,  that  man  had  better  have  kept  quiet  a 
little  longer !  "  exclaimed  St.  Clair.  "  Talk  is  the  seed 
of  thought." 

"  That  is  measurably  true  for  me,"  returned  Vincent, 
who  had  just  entered.  "  At  all  events,  I  get  cleared  up 
as  to  a  problem  when  I  talk  it  out,  and  especially  when 
I  speak  it  out  afoot ;  I  mean  in  court,  for  instance." 

"  But  for  my  part,"  I  said,  "  I  never  clear  my  head 
to  my  satisfaction  until  I  write  out  my  thinkings.  I 
may  have  to  do  it  over  and  over,  but  in  no  other  way 
do  I  get  the  best  out  of  my  brain." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  93 

"And  I,"  said  Clayborne,  "must  sit  down  with  a 
pipe,  alone,  and  let  my  head  work.  Then  it  comes,  if 
it  come  at  all.  But  this  follows  days  of  looser,  yet 
quite  constant  musing  on  the  matter,  and  I  talk  slowly, 
as  you  know." 

"  Yes ;  we  know,"  murmured  St.  Clair,  viciously. 

"  Bad  boy ! "  whispered  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  Go  into  a 
corner  of  silence,  and  stay  there.  Pray  go  on,  Mr. 
Clayborne." 

"  I  fancy,"  he  continued,  "  that  the  rate  of  thought 
must  govern  the  rate  of  speech.  Quick  thinkers  are 
rapid  speakers." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  St.  Clair,  "  why  it  bothers  a  fellow 
to  talk  on  his  feet.  I  once  had  to  speak  at  a  dinner. 
I  shiver  at  the  remembrance.  Where  did  my  thoughts 
go,  Owen  ?  I  got  up  with  a  full  pocket,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment was  a  bankrupt." 

"  Judging,"  said  I,  "  from  one's  f eelings  the  day  after 
a  public  dinner,  one's  thoughts  must  go  to  the  liver." 

"That  explains  it,"  laughed  Vincent.  "It  has  al- 
ways been  a  puzzle  to  me." 

"  Apropos  of  puzzles,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  Fred  tells 
me  you  have  an  enigma  for  me,  and  that  is  curious, 
because  I  have  one  for  you." 

"  Here  is  ours,"  I  returned,  and  repeated  it. 

"You  will  never  guess  it,"  said  Clayborne.  "It 
roosted  that  night  in  a  corner  of  my  brain,  and  kept 
me  awake.  At  last  I  cursed  it  in  good  Arabic,  and 
f  eU  asleep." 

"Stop!"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "It  is  —  "  And  she 
whispered  to  me. 

"  You  have  it.     That  is  correct." 


94  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  The  female  brain  is  an  extraordinary  instrument," 
said  Clayborne,  reflectively ;  while  Vincent,  laughing, 
insisted  on  hearing  the  solution. 

"No,"  she  said 5  "not  until  you  have  guessed  mine, 
and  perhaps  not  then.  It  is  short,  and  pretty,  and 
very  easy;  in  fact,  it  was  made  for  some  children. 

Here  it  is : 

"My  first  is  one, 
My  second  five, 
My  whole  is  four, 
And  backwards  six." 

"That  is  rather  pretty,"  said  St.  Clair.  "Is  it—" 
And  he  whispered. 

"  No ;  that  is  clever,  but  not  correct." 

"  An  amusement  for  fiends,"  said  Clayborne.  "Any- 
thing is  better." 

"Do  you  all  give  it  up?"  asked  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"  Well,  the  answer  is  —  I  shall  never,  never,  tell  you 
the  answer." 

"  Then  here  is  my  history.  I  had  the  man's  leave 
to  use  it.  And  now,  candles,  please."  And  so  I 
went  on. 


NOTES  OP  A  CASE  OF  TOO  GOOD  A  MEMORY. 

As  a  child  I  was  remarked  on  account  of  absence 
of  imagination,  and  for  a  memory  of  remarkable  char- 
acter. I  learned  everything  with  singular  ease.  As  I 
grew  older,  I  found  it  so  possible  to  memorize  readily 
that  in  place  of  using  my  mind  in  geometry  or  algebra, 
I  simply  read  over  the  problems  and  their  solutions, 
and  got  them  by  heart.  At  first  this  method  answered 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  95 

all  the  demands  of  education,  but  when  I  came  to  ap- 
ply my  knowledge  to  examples  where  no  solutions 
were  given,  I  of  course  failed.  Nevertheless,  I  was  so 
ready  with  acquired  knowledge  that  I  contrived  to  zig- 
zag through  my  school  course,  and  then,  by  my  father's 
help,  obtained  a  place  as  reporter  of  street  incidents. 

And  here  let  me  pause  to  describe  my  mental  con- 
dition. The  full  consciousness  of  the  great  mental 
peculiarity  of  which  I  now  speak  came  to  me  only 
after  a  time,  and  by  degrees,  and  more  by  reason  of 
the  remarks  made  by  others  than  from  my  own  unas- 
sisted observation.  This  struck  me  forcibly  once  when 
I  was  about  to  do  a  race ;  I  was  then  eighteen  years 
old.  A  man  asked  what  was  the  lineage  of  a  certain 
horse.  I  began,  and  without  effort,  or,  indeed,  thought, 
traced  the  parentage  back  to  Eclipse.  This  excited 
vast  amazement.  Then,  as  afterward,  I  wondered  at 
the  surprise  and  interest  my  powers  of  memory  occa- 
sioned. The  results  which  caused  surprise  were  purely 
automatic,  and  cost  me  no  effort  j  nor  have  I  ever  been 
able  to  feel  that  I  had  to  try  in  order  to  recall  a  fact. 
In  a  word,  my  memory  was  perfect.  At  first  this  may 
seem  to  the  reader  a  matter  of  little  interest ;  but  in 
reality  the  power  to  forget  is  one  of  the  most  valuable 
and  helpful  gifts  which  a  man  possesses.  When  men 
regret  the  want  of  vivid  memory,  I  wonder,  and  envy 
the  deficiency  of  which  they  complain.  I  wish,  indeed, 
that  I  could  feel  sure  of  the  power  of  death  as  an  ob- 
literative  change.  As  to  the  loss  of  memory,  of  which 
the  aged  speak,  I  am  most  anxious.  I  presume,  from 
what  I  hear,  that  men  lose  in  time  the  vivid  recollec- 
tions of  sorrow,  and  that  Methuselah  at  nine  hundred 


96  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

might  have  reflected  with  little  discomfort  on  the 
follies,  the  griefs,  the  crimes,  of  his  youth.  Even  the 
keenest  remorse  would  lose  its  cruel  edge  and  be  rusted 
dull  by  time.  If  I  read  a  book,  it  is  mine  forever; 
clever  or  vapid,  there  it  is.  I  forget  nothing.  I  can 
repeat  Shakspere  from  end  to  end.  As  a  consequence, 
nothing  seems  to  me  to  be  fresh  or  original.  A  phrase 
recalls  one  like  it,  and  as  life  goes  on  I  cease  to  get 
pleasure  out  of  books  or  men's  talk. 

At  one  time  I  eked  out  my  narrow  income  by  read- 
ing manuscripts  for  a  journal ;  but  as  in  regard  to  the 
cleverest  contributions  I  could  at  once  point  out  end- 
less plagiarisms  of  thought  or  expression,  I  soon  be- 
came unpopular  and  lost  the  occupation.  Somewhat 
later  I  was  given  work  to  do  for  an  encyclopedia. 
Seemingly  there  was  no  task  for  which  my  enormous 
store  of  varied  erudition  was  better  fitted,  and  yet  here 
too  I  failed.  My  employers  complained  that  I  had  no 
sense  of  proportion.  All  knowledge  was  alike  to  me, 
and  all  was  equally  well  remembered.  The  large,  the 
small,  were  as  one  in  my  mind,  and  had  the  same  im- 
portance, because  the  place  of  a  comma,  and  the  words 
among  which  it  lay,  seemed  to  me  equally  distinct. 
As  I  reflect  on  this  with  an  ever-present  sense  of  puzzle, 
I  seem  to  myself  to  be  a  mere  memorial  machine  in 
which  the  gearing  of  association  is  altogether  too 
complete. 

My  intensity  of  memory  is  accompanied  with  a  curi- 
ous automatic  capacity  over  which  I  have,  as  life  goes 
on,  a  constantly  lessening  control.  If  I  remember  a 
note,  or  a  bar  of  music,  I  seem  to  hear  it  and  a  long 
succession  of  passages  from  the  opera  to  which  it  be- 


CHARACTERISTICS.  97 

longs,  and  this  is  also  true  as  to  books.  When  awake 
in  the  dark,  but  also  in  a  less  degree  in  the  daylight, 
I  have  any  scene  or  incident  which  occurs  to  me  vis- 
ually projected  into  space  before  my  eyes  even  more 
vividly  than  when  I  first  saw  it.  Of  late  the  fidelity 
of  these  recurring  phantoms  has  troubled  me,  on  ac- 
count of  their  appearance  seeming  to  be  real,  or  what 
is  called  objective.  I  ascribe  such  apparitions  to  the 
diseased  perfectness  of  memory,  for  sometimes  what  is 
past  returns  to  me  remembered  in  a  shape  even  more 
distinct  than  was  the  impression  made  at  the  time  by 
the  then  present  course  of  the  occurrence.  It  is  singu- 
lar to  me  that  remembered  sounds,  which  ring  in  my 
head,  seem  heard  within  it,  but  things  once  seen  al- 
ways appear  to  be  outside  of  the  head. 

As  I  remember  my  dreams  quite  as  well  as  the  scenes 
of  the  day,  I  find  myself  troubled  at  times,  and  in 
doubt  as  to  whether  something  is  real  or  the  product 
of  a  dream ;  for  if  a  dream  be  as  definite  as  a  thing 
seen  in  the  daylight,  how  shall  we  know  it  to  be  a 
thing  untrue  ? 

Certainly  absolute  perfection  of  memory  is  a  mis- 
fortune, unless  the  deliberative  and  executive  powers 
of  the  mind  are  normally  competent  to  keep  discipline 
and  deal  with  memories  which  have  the  force  of  a  mob. 

I  am  told, — indeed,  I  know, — that,  for  most  men, 
time  slowly  but  surely  blurs  emotional  recollections. 
If  it  were  not  so,  all  lives  would  be  like  mine — unen- 
durable. With  me  the  strong  absolute  fact  of  a  ca- 
lamity, the  thing  as  it  took  place,  really  lives  in  my 
mind  as  if  it  had  happened  a  moment  ago,  and  with 
its  recollection  rises,  in  agonizing  clearness,  the  emo- 


98  CHARACTERISTICS. 

tion  to  which  it  originally  gave  birth.  Time  has  no 
destructive  value ;  all  the  details  remain.  Thus,  as  to 
my  mother's  death,  I  am  forced,  when  associations 
arise,  to  see  in  all  its  ghastliness  the  minutest  of  the 
incidents  of  her  last  hours  with  the  dreadful  sharpness 
they  had  for  me  when,  a  tender  child  of  twelve,  I  saw 
her  die.  Does  a  recurring  memory  merely  play  anew 
on  our  capacity  for  emotion,  or  do  the  emotions  once 
felt  remain  for  us  as  memories  ?  I  do  not  know.  I 
think  I  must  remember  the  emotions  and  not  recreate 
them,  because  I  am  not  now  so  sensitive  to  moral 
hurts  as  I  once  was.  There  is  one  curious  trick  which 
my  sensations  now  and  then  play,  and  which  I  es- 
pecially dread,  and,  strangely  enough,  it  is  connected 
with  the  only  defect  of  memory  to  which  I  am  ever 
subject.  I  can  best  illustrate  this  by  relating  an  inci- 
dent of  my  reportorial  life. 

Passing  up  an  obscure  street  in  New  York,  I  saw  a 
crowd  around  a  doorway.  I  went,  as  was  my  business, 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  A  policeman  who  knew 
me,  and  who  arrived  at  the  same  time,  took  me  in  with 
him  through  a  window  in  the  basement.  It  seemed 
that  screams  had  been  heard  in  the  house,  and  those 
collected  by  the  noise  feared  to  enter.  We  went  up  a 
shabby  staircase  and  finally  found  a  door  which  was 
locked.  As  we  stood  near  it,  getting  no  answer  to  our 
demands  to  be  let  in,  I  suddenly  grew  faint,  and  a 
sensation  of  pure,  causeless  terror  overcame  me.  I 
told  my  companion  that  I  was  ill,  and  ran  down-stairs. 
Here  I  sat  in  a  lower  room,  opened  the  window,  and 
tried  to  think  what  it  was  that  had  thus  disturbed  me. 
The  feeling  that  for  once  my  memory  was  at  fault  was 


CHABACTEKISTICS.  99 

agreeable  to  me,  as  it  always  is.  In  a  few  minutes  I 
knew  that  I  had  simply  remembered  a  mental  state 
without  getting  hold  of  the  causative  fact.  Then  sud- 
denly I  was  aware  that  it  was  the  odor  of  blood  which 
had  caused  me  to  remember — I  should  say,  to  feel 
again — the  anguish  of  terror  I  had  experienced  when, 
as  a  child,  I  saw  my  father  bleeding  from  a  wound  of 
the  forehead.  In  a  few  moments  the  policeman  came 
down  to  say  that  a  brutal  murder  had  been  done  in 
the  room  we  had  tried  to  enter.  This  leads  me  to  add 
that  my  sense  of  smell  is  acute. 

A  few  days  after  this  I  was  walking  up  the  Bowery 
of  a  cold  night,  when  I  found  a  group  around  a  girl 
who  had  fallen  on  the  slippery  ice  and  hurt  herself 
badly.  Her  face,  as  she  lay  pale  under  a  gas-lamp,  at 
onco  recalled  one  whom  I  had  well  known.  With 
some  help  I  got  her  into  a  hack,  and  took  her  home  to 
a  poor  little  lodging  where  she  lived  with  her  mother. 
She  herself  was  a  map-colorer,  and  the  two  were  evi- 
dently folks  who  had  seen  better  days.  The  following 
morning  I  went  to  see  them,  and  then  began  for  me  a 
period  of  indescribable  joy  in  my  lonely  life,  and  yet 
of  as  utter  misery. 

I  was,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  thirty-one  years  old. 
When  about  twenty  I  had  been  engaged  (foolishly,  my 
father  said,  as  I  had  not  a  cent)  to  a  girl  of  quite  or- 
dinary character.  It  ended  as  such  affairs  are  apt  to 
do,  and  I  suffered  as  a  lad  does.  Another  would  in 
process  of  time  have  come  out  unhurt.  As  for  me,  it 
led  me  to  avoid  women.  Not  that  I  disliked  them; 
they  have  more  charity  for  peculiar  people  than  men 
have.  But  every  little  tenderness,  a  movement,  a  turn 


100  CHAEACTEKISTICS. 

of  the  head,  brought  back  to  me  intense  remembrances, 
and  all  their  bitter  emotional  accompaniments. 

Throughout  our  simple  courtship  I  struggled  with 
the  demon  of  remorseless  memory.  If  I  touched  her 
hand,  there  arose  the  many  times  when  I  had  so 
touched  the  hand  of  the  other  woman,  and  when  at 
last  I  kissed  Helen,  of  a  sudden  I  felt  the  older  joy,  as 
it  were,  alongside  of  this  new  one.  The  ghost  of  ex- 
tinct passion  haunted  the  sweetness  of  my  new  and 
better  love.  So  mercilessly  intense  was  my  remem- 
brance that  I  became  giddy  for  a  moment.  I  no 
longer  loved  the  other  woman,  and  yet  the  recollection 
of  my  joy  at  winning  her  was  brought  back  by  a  like 
joy  in  a  form  so  real  as  to  puzzle  and  confuse  me. 

There  is  no  need  to  exemplify  this  trouble  in  detail. 
It  recurred  so  often  that  at  last  I  told  Helen.  At  first 
she  seemed  only  amused,  but  very  soon  became  an- 
noyed, and,  absurd  as  it  may  seem,  jealous  of  the  in- 
fluence my  fatal  memory  exerted.  She  insisted  that  I 
could  control  my  thoughts.  I  became  angry  at  last, 
and  we  parted.  Strangely  enough,  this  rupture  was 
a  relief  to  me. 

It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  read  the  books  about  memory, 
that  every  memorial  impression  must  materially  alter 
the  brain  somewhere  and  somehow,  and  that  very  little 
change  should  be  needed  to  lessen  what  must  be  so 
slight  a  record.  And  yet,  alas !  for  me  these  records 
seem  to  be  unalterably  persistent. 

In  Professor  Draper's  work  I  found  his  illustration 
of  how  faint  need  be  a  material  record  to  be  perma- 
nent He  says:  "Put  a  coin  on  a  clean  mirror. 
Breathe  on  both,  and  wait  for  the  moisture  to  evapo- 


CHAKACTEEISTICS.  101 

rate ;  cast  off  the  coin,  put  the  glass  aside  for  some 
days,  and  again  breathe  on  the  glass,  and  the  outline 
of  the  coin  will  reappear."  His  illustration  is  good, 
but  is  as  nothing  to  the  delicacy  of  the  memorial  mind- 
marks. 

I  have  said  that  I  have  small  power  to  reason.  I 
may  add  that  I  have  no  imagination.  Memory  is  too 
implacable  with  me  to  admit  of  that.  When  I  try  to 
imagine  in  any  of  the  forms  described  by  Ruskin,  I 
feel  as  though  I  am  merely  hustled  by  a  rush  of  re- 
membered facts.  Every  one  is  a  poet  in  his  sleep,  but 
even  in  dreams  I  seldom  see  anything  not  possible, 
or  even  not  clearly  out  of  my  memorial  storehouse. 
Facts  suggest  only  facts  for  me  in  my  effort  to  reason 
deeply,  and  to  drive  a  wedge  in  between  two  facts  or 
remembrances,  and  thus  to  separate  and  hold  and  ex- 
amine them  comparatively  is  difficult.  My  mind  asso- 
ciates too  rapidly  for  mental  valuations.  Thus  I  am 
forbidden  by  my  morbid  accuracy  of  memory  to  be 
other  than  minutely  truthful,  and  the  effort  to  make 
use  of  the  little  lies  which  cement  social  intercourse  is 
rendered  hard.  I  am  not  unwilling  to  fib,  but  it  hurts 
me  to  be  inaccurate. 

After  reading  Dr.  Horatio  Wood's  articles  on  hash- 
ish, I  decided  to  see  if  this  drug  might  not  help  me. 
I  took,  at  first,  small  doses,  and  at  last  a  larger  one. 
The  result  I  shall  never  forget.  I  had  been  writing, 
and  was  suddenly  aware  that  I  had  lost  control  of  my 
mind,  and  faintly  realized  what  had  happened.  In 
place  of  enfeebling  my  memory,  the  drug  had  rein- 
forced it.  With  this  came  also  a  horribly  strange  sen- 
sation of  the  flight  of  time.  Countless  ages  seemed  to 


102  CHARACTERISTICS. 

go  by  as  palpably  as  a  rushing  stream.  Every  mo- 
ment seemed  to  be  freighted  with  a  load  of  memories, 
each  mercilessly  definite.  I  had,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  ver- 
tigo of  reminiscences.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every- 
thing I  had  ever  seen,  read,  or  heard  flashed  into  and 
through  my  consciousness.  This  ended  my  experi- 
ments. I  am  a  miserable  man. 

WHEN  I  came  to  a  close  Clayborne  was  calmly  sleep- 
ing. As  I  ceased,  he  wakened,  and  declared  it  to  be 
very  interesting. 

"  It  is  merely  horrible,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  How 
welcome  death  must  be  to  such  a  man !  I  can  under- 
stand that  he  might  kill  himself." 

"  But  perhaps  death  may  also  result  in  a  vertigo  of 
memories,"  I  returned. 

"  Perhaps ;  yes.    That  indeed  might  give  us  pause." 


VHI. 


VINCENT,  who  did  not  love  the 
sea,  and  whose  dislike  was  recipro- 
cated by  very  evil  treatment  on  its 
part,  was  always  glad  to  give  her 
husband  what  she  called  a  temporary 
divorce.  She  knew  well  how  much 
the  roughest  sea  voyage  was  his  friend,  and  was  well 
pleased  when  in  summer  she  could  persuade  him  to 
get  away  in  his  yacht. 

"  I  have  a  note  from  Vincent,"  said  St.  Clair  one 
day  early  in  September.  "  He  wants  us  to  join  him  at 
Jamestown.  Clayborne  says  this  town  is  good  enough. 
I  believe  he  cools  himself  with  the  classic  authors.  At 
all  events,  go  he  will  not." 

I  was  happy  in  the  chance  of  relief,  having  been 
detained  in  town  all  of  August,  and  so  it  was  that  two 
days  later  we  joined  Vincent.  We  lived  on  his  little 
vessel,  sailed  around  Newport,,  and  for  a  month  lived 
a  life  of  joyous  freedom. 

One  day  we  started  together  to  walk  on  Canonicut 
Island,  across  a  country  road  which  led  away  from  the 
few  houses  on  the  shore.  Gaining  a  little  hilltop,  we 
looked  over  at  Narragansett  and  out  to  sea,  or,  turn- 
ing, saw  the  Dumplings,  the  fort,  and  the  quaint  old 
8 


104  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

steeples  of  Newport  above  the  white  houses  scattered 
along  the  bay. 

The  day  was  perfect,  and  it  was  quiet,  too,  with  the 
stillness  on  sea  and  on  land  of  a  New  England  Sab- 
bath. Presently,  moving  on,  we  overtook  a  small, 
slightly  built  woman,  who  was  pausing  here  and  there 
to  gather  wild  flowers. 

St.  Clair  asked  her  the  road  to  Beaver  Tail  Light- 
house. She  said  it  was  a  rather  crooked  way  through 
gates  and  fields,  and  then,  as  Vincent  drew  near,  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh,  what  a  bit  of  luck  to  see  you  here  ! n 

It  was  evident  from  his  greeting  that  they  were  old 
acquaintances.  He  turned  and  presented  us.  "  Miss 

M ,"  he  said,  "  and  will  not  you  show  us  the  way  ? 

For  otherwise  we  are  but  lost  men." 

She  smiled  pleasantly,  and  said  a  few  words  to  each 
in  turn,  in  a  manner  quite  hard  to  put  in  words,  but 
which,  however  one  might  describe  it,  as  gracious  or 
generous,  at  once  established  mysteriously  cordial  re- 
lations with  the  hearer.  It  was  easy  to  see  in  a  few 
minutes  that  she  had  the  rare  gift  of  intellectual  sym- 
pathy, perhaps  I  should  have  said  of  sympathy  in  most 
of  its  forms.  The  farmers  we  met  in  their  Sunday 
black  suits  knew  her,  and  their  dogs  came  and  jumped 
on  her  as  if  welcoming  a  friend.  The  little  children 
cast  up  at  her  shy  glances  of  acquaintance.  As  we 
walked  along,  she  seemed  to  hear  all  that  was  said,  and 
yet  with  wandering  eyes  to  see  all  that  earth,  air,  and 
sea  had  to  show. 

We  passed  through  fields  and  open  gates,  and  at 
last  rested  on  a  grass-bank  by  the  roadside.  On  our 
left  was  a  dense  shrubbery  of  undergrowth,  ferns 


CHARACTERISTICS.  105 

and  scrub-oaks.  The  low  lichen-stained  walls  bounded 
fields  of  perfect  grass.  Below  us,  to  the  left,  the  mur- 
mur of  breaking  waves  came  softly  to  the  ear,  and 
beyond,  the  open  ocean  lay  intensely  blue  in  the  sun 
of  noon. 

St.  Clair  evidently  interested  our  companion.  He 
was  in  a  mood  of  half -suppressed  and  joyous  excite- 
ment, such  as  open  air  and  nature  at  her  best  were  apt 
to  produce  in  him.  "  What  a  well-mannered  day !  "  he 
said,  looking  around.  "  Such  a  nice  reserve  in  its  way. 
Here  comes  the  wind  out  of  the  north,  and  says,  I 
might  be  cold,  but  I  am  not ;  and  the  midday  sun  lets 
you  know  it  might  be  warm,  and  is  not.  It  is  a 
day  full  of  delicious  possibilities,  like — like — a  nice 
woman." 

I  saw  Vincent's  eyebrows  go  up  in  faint  amusement, 
and  his  face  said  clearly,  "The  dear  fellow  is  off." 

Not  so  Miss  M .  "  What  a  pretty  phrase  !  "  she 

exclaimed,  smiling.  "A  well-mannered  day.  I  shall  re- 
member that.  One  has  worn  out  weather  phraseology." 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "the  thief, 

"She  has  the  mystery  of  a  morn  in  May, 
Nor  hot  nor  cold, 
Nor  ever  grave,  nor  ever  gay, 
Until  her  secret  soul  be  told." 

"Ah,  they  always  laugh  at  me,"  cried  St.  Clair. 
"And  as  for  Dr.  North's  quotations,  who  can  trust 
them  ?  He  is  a  poet  in  disguise,  and  has  a  half -sup- 
pressed notion  that  poetry  is  a  sort  of  asking  of  the 
alms  of  emotion,  and  not  quite  as  reputable  work  as 
pretending  to  cure  folks.  The  day  may  guard  her 


106  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

secret  soul  for  me.  The  fair  outside  is  enough.  There 
is  joy  in  the  very  air.  It  is  a  honeymoon  of  delight. 
Come,  I  am  for  the  sea."  And  with  this  he  rose  and 
walked  on  ahead  of  us  at  a  pace  that  soon  left  us  far 
behind. 

"  What  a  glad  face ! "  said  Miss  M .  "  It  has  the 

most  singular  power  of  joyous  expression.  I  remem- 
ber, cousin  Fred,  your  once  speaking  of  him  in  Rome, 
of  his  intense  power  to  feel ;  of  his  camaraderie  with 
all  natural  objects  (I  think  that  was  the  word  you 
used ;  it  struck  me  as  happy)." 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  him,"  returned  Vincent.  "  He 
is  joyous  by  mere  natural  construction,  a  seer  of  things 
that  escape  us.  I  envy,  without  comprehending,  his 
sensitiveness  to  innumerable  impressions  which  escape 
uncaught  through  the  coarser  meshes  of  my  mental 
net." 

"  What  you  say  is  quite  true,"  I  added ;  "  and  with 
it  all  there  is  a  capacity  for  friendliness  with  every 
living  thing  which  has  often  surprised  me.  He  will 
quiet  the  fiercest  dog,  or  take  unhurt  a  handful  of  bees 
in  his  grasp.  I  have  seen  him  handle  a  rattlesnake." 

"  In  another  man,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  should  call  his 
affection  for  trees  or  flowers  an  affectation.  In  him  it 
seems  entirely  natural.  I  am  an  observer  because  I 
have  learned  to  observe,  but  this  close  relation  to  the 
world  of  animate  and  inanimate  things  is  like  the  tie 
of  kindred.  I  can  merely  regard  it  with  wonder." 

"Why  do  you  call  them  inanimate?"  said  Miss 
M . 

"  Because  they  are." 

"  We  may  not  be  animate  enough  to  know." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  107 

"I  am  not,"  returned  Vincent.  "I  wish  I  were. 
Something  I  lose,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  lose  any  of 
the  reasonable  joys  of  life." 

"  You  will  never  miss  it,"  said  Miss  M ,  "  really 

miss  it — I  mean  this  nearness  of  relation  to  nature — 
as  you  will  if  ever  a  great  misfortune  should  pass  into 
your  life,  and  become  thenceforward  a  part  of  you — I 
may  say,  of  your  every  fiber." 

She  spoke  quietly,  without  any  tone  of  self -allusion 
in  her  manner ;  but  I  turned  to  scan  her  face,  and 
saw  that  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  were  set  on  the  distant 
horizon,  and  at  once  understood  that  she  spoke  of 
herself. 

"  That  is  true,"  I  said.  "  There  is  strange  comfort 
in  nature  v/hen  man  has  none  to  profit  you.  I  think 
we  all  must  have  felt  with  Victor  Hugo  the  helpfulness 
of  finding  in  nature  such  companionship  in  our  moods 
as  does  give  a  certain,  if  mysterious,  solace. 

"  J'aime  la  roche  solennelle 
D'ou  j'entends  la  plainte  eternelle, 
Sans  tr&ve  eomme  le  remords, 
Totijours  renaissant  dans  les  ombres. 

He  is  grieving  over  a  debased  and  fallen  France,  and 
the  sea  is  grieving  with  him." 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  there  are  times  when  no  human 
soul  is  tender  enough,  simple  enough,  or,  if  you  like, 
subtle  enough  in  its  apprehensions,  to  be  the  friend  we 
want — when  man  delights  you  not,  nor  woman  either. 
It  may  be,  it  may  seem  to  be,  absurd  to  some,  but  there 
are  days  when  to  be  alone  with  the  sea,  or  solitary  in 
the  forest,  consoles  as  nothing  else  can  do  on  earth. 
I  think,"  she  went  on,  "  that  this  mere  loneliness  with 


108  CHARACTERISTICS. 

nature  has  negative  as  well  as  positive  values.  One 
escapes  from  talk.  That  alone  is  an  immense  thing 
— one  need  not  make  reply  to  the  glad  babble  of  the 
waters." 

"And  for  me,"  said  Vincent,  "there  would  be  but 
one  remedy — work." 

"  No,"  I  returned.  "  Few  men,  and  fewer  women, 
while  still  near  to  a  great  sorrow,  can  find  relief  in 
work.  Few  have  energy  enough  for  this.  Those  who 
have  strong  characteristics  run  risks  which  not  the 
sturdiest  can  afford  to  despise.  I  have  seen  many  a 
man  under  the  stress  of  grief  break  down  with  intense 
business  occupation." 

"And  yet,"  said  Vincent,  "  what  else  is  there  ?  Let 
us  suppose  that  we  have  used  as  we  may  all  that  higher 
consolations  can  offer ;  what  shall  a  man  do  who  is 
stricken  down  with  the  loss  of  something  the  most  dear 
to  him  on  earth  ?  Work  would  be  my  remedy." 

"  You  might  be  able  to  bear  it ;  many  are.  Time 
would  probably  answer  with  you,  and  do  all  that  is 
possible.  I  fancy  the  means  of  relief  must  vary  with 
the  man.  It  is  quite  sure  that  for  many  physical  ac- 
tion is  of  use,  and  often  saves  the  sensitive  from  those 
outward  expressions  of  emotion  which  for  them,  at 
least,  are  full  of  moral  and  even  physical  danger. 
After  a  while  there  comes  a  time  when  systematic  work 
is  of  value ;  but  I  am  sure  that  in  days  of  sorrow  some 
people  are  best  left  to  themselves.  The  blow  of  grief, 
like  that  of  the  lion's  paw,  deadens  the  sense  of  its  own 
hurt,  and  to  urge  physical  exertion,  work,  or  travel, 
or,  in  fact,  anything,  is  vain  or  dangerous." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  109 

"Of  course,"  said  Vincent,  "one's  thoughts  about 
these  matters  are  chiefly  of  and  for  the  nobler  char- 
acter. The  mass  of  men  suffer  and  get  well  without 
excess  of  sorrow." 

"  The  thing  we  are  after  is,  or  ought  to  be,"  said 

Miss  M ,  "  how  to  save  the  best  natures  from  the 

inefficiency  which  sorrow  sometimes  brings  in  its  train 
—  the  physical  wreckage  it  makes." 

"  And,  after  all,  is  that  common,  North  ? " 

"  Common  enough  to  be  feared.  But  very  often  the 
inefficiency  which  it  brings  has  other  explanations. 
The  dissolution  of  a  partnership  in  life  ruins  or  im- 
pairs the  usefulness  of  the  surviving  partner.  The 
dead  gave  something  which  was  a  complement  essen- 
tial to  the  usefulness  of  the  remaining  member  of  the 
firm.  There  are  wives  who  supply  judgment  or  com- 
mon sense,  or  who  in  some  way  have  the  gift  of  en- 
ergizing the  husband,  or  of  keeping  him  economical. 
She  dies,  and  he  is  relatively  valueless.  Then  people 
say  it  is  grief,  while  very  often  he  himself  never  fully 
comprehends  what  has  happened  to  him." 

"That  is  most  true,"  said  Vincent.  "But  to  go 
back  a  little.  Your  remedy  of  contact  with  solitary- 
nature  must  be  only  for  the  few,  who  have  with  it  such 
relationship  as  you  have  been  discussing.  For  some 
I  am  sure  that  travel  has  its  value,  because  we  are  thus 
surrounded  with  distracting  objects,  and  by  people  who 
may  interest  us  without  intruding  on  the  solitude  of 
ourselves.  The  loneliness  of  forest  or  sea  would  for 
me  be  madness  under  circumstances  of  such  trouble 
as  we  are  speaking  of.  Nature,  not  your  nature,  but 


110  CHAKACTEEISTICS. 

nature  in  the  more  inclusive  sense,  never  invented  La 
Trappe." 

"It  gets  very  complex  as  we  go  on,"  said  Miss 

M .     "The  fact  remains  that  for  many,  for  the 

sensitive,  and  often  for  others  than  the  intellectual, 
the  world  of  natural  things  has  soothing  ways  and  an 
inexplicable  comfort  not  elsewhere  to  be  found." 

"  It  may  be,"  returned  Vincent.  "  What  are  those 
lines  of  which  St.  Clair  is  so  fond  ? 

"Only  on  Nature's  lap  can  some  men  weep, 
Only  to  her  beloved  gives  she  sleep ; 
Her  sympathy  alone  hath  ever  perfect  touch, 
Mpn  gives  too  little  or  he  gives  too  much." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  M .  "And  where  is 

your  friend?  "We  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  use  this 
perfect  day  for  a  talk  so  grave.  Let  us  keep  the  rest 
of  it  for  an  east  wind." 

"And  its  consolations,"  laughed  Vincent.  "As  to 
that  I  am  at  one  with  you.  Its  relations  to  me  are 
despotic  and  disagreeable.  Oh,  there  he  is,  the  idle 
beggar.  All  Lombard  street  to  a  china  orange,  he  has 
been  making  poetry.  Halloo,  St.  Clair !  " 

Below  the  small  lighthouse,  on  the  rocks  at  the  verge 
of  the  sea,  the  sculptor  lay  with  his  head  over  the 
edge,  his  face  exposed  to  the  full  sunlight.  The  waves 
broke  far  out  on  a  reef,  and  as  they  rose  again  with 
failing  power  just  touched  his  head.  He  laughed  with 
the  glee  of  a  truant  boy.  As  we  came  down  the  rocks 
he  sat  up,  shook  the  brine  out  of  his  hair  as  a  dog 
does,  looked  about  him,  and  said,  "  Oh,  the  treacherous 
sea !  There  it  is." 

The  little  black  note-book  he  usually  carried  in  his 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  Ill 

pocket,  having  been  laid  on  a  rock,  had  been  drifted 
off  by  a  wave. 

"  Poetry  gone  to  sea,"  said  I  j  and  while  we  laughed 
heartily  at  his  look  of  solemn  discomfiture  Vincent 
hooked  the  soaked  book  ashore  with  his  cane.  St. 
Clair  ruefully  spread  it  out  in  the  sun,  while  we  made 
numerous  suggestions  as  to  the  loss  to  the  world.  St. 

Clair  said  nothing  until  he  looked  up  at  Miss  M 's 

face.  Then  he  exclaimed,  "  I  think  you  could  help  me." 

"  Yes ;  men  have  no  resources,"  she  said,  and,  taking 
the  book,  went  quietly  up  the  shore  and  into  the  house 
attached  to  the  light-tower. 

"  Epic  or  sonnet  ? "  said  Vincent. 

"Sonnet,"  said  St.  Clair,  tranquilly.  "What  bad 
men  you  are !  Don't  you  know  that  was  a  real  mis- 
fortune? Only  women  are  entirely  good.  No  man 
was  ever  so  good  as  some  women.  Men  reason  them- 
selves into  goodness,  but  women — oh,  I  hate  you  both ! 
Get  away,  do." 

There  was  some  fun  and  some  earnestness  in  his 
phrases.  Then  he  sat  on  the  rock  and  threw  stones  at 

the  billows  as  if  for  punishment,  until  Miss  M , 

who  was  gone  for  a  full  half -hour,  came  back. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  she,  "  only  a  little  blurred  and 
crumpled.  It  will  serve  now  to  keep  me  in  remem- 
brance." 

He  made  no  conventional  mention  of  thanks,  but 
looking  up,  only  smiled  as  he  put  the  book  away. 
After  this  we  sat  on  the  rocks,  saying  little. 

The  sea  was  one  vast  round  of  sapphire  set  in  the 
gray  of  the  rocks  and  the  sparkling  grasses  of  the  up- 
lands. Out  of  the  pine  woods  of  the  northland  came 


112  CHARACTERISTICS. 

stronger  every  hour  a  great  wind,  and  as  the  vast  bil- 
lows rose  on  the  reef  with  white  crests,  it  sniote  them 
so  severely  that  the  foam  streamed  southward  in  level 
lines. 

At  last  Miss  M said :  "  How  much  of  this  do 

you  carry  away,  Dr.  North  ?  In  memory,  I  mean,  and 
distinctly." 

I  said :  "  My  thoughts  were  far  afield.  I  can  see  it 
in  a  manner  when  I  close  my  eyes;  not  as  I  once 
could,  when  a  child." 

"  It  is  with  me  almost  as  present  with  my  eyes  shut 
as  now,"  said  St.  Clair,  "  and  I  shall  not  lose  it.  Just 
as  I  go  to  sleep  is  the  time  to  recall  a  scene  I  once 
saw,  but  I  cannot  always  keep  it.  It  changes,  or  gives 
place  to  another.  Is  that  common,  North  ? " 

"  I  am  not  sure.  It  is  common  with  me ;  but  al- 
though, like  you,  I  can  best  recall  a  scene  then,  I  can- 
not always  do  so.  Something  else  appears,  and  then 
that  too  changes.  There  must  be  a  law  deducible,  but 
as  it  is,  with  what  we  now  know,  I  cannot  explain  the 
facts." 

"And  have  you,"  said  Miss  M ,  "  certain  habitual 

dreams  ?  I  have." 

"  Yes.  I  used  to  fancy  I  would  collect  experiences 
on  this  subject.  My  own  are  often  professional.  I 
make  an  error  in  a  prescription ;  or,  about  to  lecture, 
find  in  my  portfolio  a  fairy  tale." 

"They  would  be  equal  in  value  a  hundred  years 
hence,"  laughed  Vincent. 

"Too  true,"  I  returned.  "A  very  common  dream 
with  me  is  to  feel  that  I  float  above  the  ground,  always 
a  foot  or  two  above  it.  It  is  most  agreeable." 

"  Oh,  I  do  that,"  said  Miss  M . 


CHAKACTEKISTICS.  113 

"  Yes  ?  And  you  like  the  sensation  as  you  have  it 
in  your  dream  ? " 

"  Certainly.  But  I  had  no  idea  it  was  a  frequent 
delusion ;  for  it  is  such  with  me,  and  a  very  complete 
delusion.  Sometimes  I  seem  to  have  no  legs  at  all, 
and  to  be  a  spirit  afloat." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  said  Vincent,  "  of  that  queer  tale 
of  a  man  who  lost  both  arms  and  both  legs  in  the  war. 
How  was  it  the  story  ended,  Owen  ? a 

"  He  is  carried  to  a  spiritual  seance,  and  there  in- 
vited to  choose  what  spirits  he  would  call  up.  With 
a  great  deal  of  sense  he  requested  his  legs  to  reappear, 
and  immediately  was  able  to  walk  about  the  room. 
He  described  his  gait  as  rather  uncertain,  but  ex- 
plained it  by  the  fact  that  both  legs  had  been  for  two 
years  in  the  Government  Museum,  preserved  in  alco- 
hol. The  fun  of  it  was  that  this  absurd  stoiy  was  ac- 
cepted by  spiritualists  as  a  new  proof  of  the  truth  of 
their  doctrine." 

"  Oh,  not  really ! "  exclaimed  Miss  M . 

"  Yes.  He  had  letters  thanking  him  and  asking  for 
details.  But,  in  fact,  the  autobiography,  as  a  whole, 
deceived  many,  although  it  was  written  without  the 
least  desire  to  mystify.  In  one  place  a  sum  of  money 
was  collected  for  the  poor  victim." 

"  I  think  I  must  have  read  the  story,"  remarked  Miss 
M . 

"  Just  now,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  have  in  my  sensitive 
center  a  waking  dream  to  the  effect  that  my  less  noble 
organs  have  been  long  vacant  of  food." 

"Indeed?"  said  Miss  M .  "Then  let  us  go. 

But  first,  Mr.  St.  Glair,  may  I  confess  you  ? " 

"Yes;  surely." 


114  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

"  You  have  been  making  verses." 

"They  make  themselves j  sometimes  in  a  vague, 
disconnected  way,  sometimes  so  as  to  stay  in  my  mind 
and  bother  me  like  bad  children  until  I  hear  and  heed." 

"And  have  you  heeded  to-day!  and  may  I  hear 
what  the  children  of  the  brain  have  said  ?  " 

"  If  it  will  be  pleasant  to  you." 

"It  will." 

Then  he  quietly  repeated  these  lines : 

BEAVER  TAIL  ROCKS. 

Fare  forth,  my  soul,  fare  forth  and  take  thine  own ; 

The  silver  morning  and  the  golden  eve 

Wait,  as  the  virgins  waited  to  receive 

The  bridegroom  and  the  bride  with  roses  strewn. 

Fare  forth  and  lift  her  veil,  the  bride  is  joy  alone. 

To  thee  the  friendly  hours  with  her  shall  bring 

The  changeless  trust  that  bird  and  poet  sing ; 

Her  dower  to-day  shall  be  the  asters  sown 

On  breezy  uplands,  hers  the  vigor  brought 

Upon  the  north1  wind's  wing,  and  hers  for  thee 

A  stately  heritage  of  land  and  sea, 

And  all  that  nature  hath,  and  all  the  great  have  thought. 

And  she  shall  whisper,  like  a  sea-born  shell, 

Things  that  thy  love  may  hear,  but  never  tell. 

Vincent  was  silent,  and  I  merely  nodded  to  the  poet 
He  understood  me  always. 

"Is  it  good?  Is  it  bad,  Miss  M ?"  he  said.  "I 

do  not  know." 

"  It  is  the  spirit  of  this  joyous  day  for  me  set  some- 
how in  words,"  Miss  M replied.  "  It  likes  me.  I 

always  think  that  such  a  pretty  phrase.  I  don't  quite 
care  to  discuss  the  verses.  Send  them  to  me,  will 
you?" 


CHARACTERISTICS.  115 

St.  Clair  nodded  gaily,  and  we  rose  and  went  our 
way. 

Over  the  grass,  through  swaying  primroses,  among 
the  bowing  plumes  of  goldenrod  and  aster  came  the 
hearty  north  wind,  as  we  went  across  the  stone-walled 
fields  and  saw  the  quiet  bay  and  the  gray  lines  of  the 
fort. 

A  farmer  on  the  fence  with  his  pipe  took  off  his  hat 
to  Miss  M .  She  asked  about  his  crops. 

"  There 's  been  a  heap  of  grass,  marm,  this  year,  and 
corn  was  never  better.  But  this  here  farm  of  mine  'a 
the  best  on  the  island." 

"  And  he  thinks  he  owns  it,"  said  St.  Clair,  apart. 
"And  yet  the  best  of  it  to-day  is  yours  and  mine,  and 
stem  or  flower  of  that  will  he  never  own,  nor  sea  nor 
sky.  I  have  known  princes  who  did  not  own  their 
great  old  galleries  of  pictures." 

"  What  it  is  to  be  a  poetical  Marquis  of  Carrabas !  " 
laughed  Vincent.  "  I  am  not  of  that  famous  family. 
Gracious,  it  is  four  o'clock !  " 

At  the  town  Miss  M left  us.  Then  I  asked 

Vincent  who  she  was. 

"Miss  M ,"  he  said,  "is  a  far-away  cousin  of 

mine  — very  distant,  in  fact.  A  New  England  woman. 
During  the  war  the  man  she  was  to  have  married  was 
killed  at  Fair  Oaks.  Since  then  her  life  has  been  one 
of  the  widest  charity.  Strangely  enough,  this  slight, 
gentle  woman  with  her  quiet  ways  has  a  remarkable 
control  over  the  criminal  classes.  The  good  she  has 
done  is  past  belief,  and  how  it  is  that  she  understands 
and  influences  these  ruined  outcasts  I  cannot  even 
dimly  comprehend." 


116  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  I  can,"  said  St.  Clair.  "  I  am  wicked  enough  to 
understand.  I  could  tell  that  woman  anything." 

"And  how  swiftly  apprehensive  she  is,"  I  added; 
"  and  yet,  despite  her  quickness,  a  patient  hearer,  and 
that,  I  think,  is  rare.  Quick-witted  folks  are  apt  to  be 
impatient.  It  needs  the  finest  manners  to  keep  them 
free  from  the  appearance  of  showing  that  they  have 
anticipated  your  explanations.  They  are  very  likely  to 
"be  a  trifle  annoyed  at  overfulness  of  statement,  just  as 
a  slightly  deaf  man  is  at  your  speaking  too  loud." 

"I  think,"  said  Vincent,  "it  is  rather  the  dull  to 
whom  you  try  to  make  things  a  little  too  clear  who  re- 
sent it  as  the  deaf  man  does  a  loud  voice.  Was  not 
your  comparison  rather  misapplied  here  ? " 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  it  is  enough  that  you  understand 
me." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  that  woman  better,"  said  St. 
Clair,  "  and  never  may.  That  is  the  worst  of  life." 

While  eating  our  belated  lunch  we  ran  down  past 
Beaver  Tail,  and  then  away  toward  the  pretty  tints  of 
Gray  Head,  and  at  last,  crossing  over  past  the  beech 
woods  of  Naushon,  came  to  anchor  in  the  moonlight 
in  the  haven  of  Wood's  Holl.  There,  on  deck,  in  the 
calm  of  a  September  night  (for  the  north  wind  had 
blown  itself  out),  we  fell  by  and  by  again  into  chat 
about  the  chance  companion  of  the  morning. 

Lying  upon  long  cushions  on  deck  with  our  pipes 
the  water  sparkling  below  us  with  luminous  life,  for  a 
while  no  one  spoke,  until,  at  last,  St.  Clair  said :  "  The 
wonder  to  me  is  how  that  woman  took  up  the  threads 
of  activity  and  wove  anew  the  warp  and  woof  of  lif  e. 
Was  the  man  she  lost  worth  having  ? " 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  117 

"  He  was  of  the  best,"  replied  Vincent.  "  A  person 
of  resolute  character  and  positive  convictions.  He  en- 
tered the  army  as  a  private,  and  was  a  colonel  when 
he  died." 

"  And  she  has  made  herself  what  we  have  seen  and 
have  heard  to-day?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Vincent ;  "  but  she  has  one  peculiarity 
— at  first  sight  an  odd  one.  She  is  not  very  fond  of 
children.  Their  needs  and  claims  she  recognizes,  of 
course,  but  she  prefers  to  help  men  and  women.  I 
never  could  understand  that  in  one  so  tender." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  I  returned.  "  She  has  never  again 
thought  of  marriage,  and  the  contact  with  these  little 
ones  arouses,  I  suspect,  all  the  sense  of  sadness  she 
must  have  at  feeling  that  the  vast  instincts  of  mater- 
nity can  never  be  gratified.  The  sentiment  is  subtle, 
but  real.  Men  can  with  difficulty  understand  the 
imTnen.se  instinctiveness  of  the  true  woman  nature. 
When  her  lif e  is  fulfilled  in  marriage  and  motherhood, 
everything  tends  to  cultivate  her  instincts.  In  the 
man's  life,  everything  tends  to  lessen  their  influence, 
and  will  with  the  woman,  in  proportion  as  she  takes  to 
the  sterner  pursuits  of  man." 

"  You  are,  no  doubt,  right,"  said  Vincent.  "  It  makes 
one  think  of  her  with  renewed  pity." 

"  And  how  it  would  all  have  destroyed  some  women," 
said  I.  "When  I  write  my  famous  book  on  the  con- 
duct of  life,  I  shall  have  to  consider  disaster  in  its  re- 
lation to  character." 

"  It  gives  a  man,"  cried  St.  Glair,  "  a  horrible  sense 
of  responsibility  to  hear  you  fellows  talk,  as  if  events 
were  nothing  and  the  man  everything." 


118  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

"  Why,  in  your  way,"  laughed  Vincent,  "  you  are  the 
most  obstinate  little  rascal  conceivable." 

"I!"  said  St.  Clair.  "I  am  kicked  about  by  cir- 
cumstances ;  I  am  bullied  by  events.  Experience  does 
me  no  good,  and  all  the  moral  tonics  disagree  with  me. 
My — what  do  you  call  it,  North? — oh,  my  idiosyn- 
crasy is  tremendously  idiosyncratic." 

"Oh,  stop  him,"  cried  Vincent,  laughing.  "Take 
his  pipe  away ;  do  something." 

"  I  am  a  happy  accident.  Indeed,  I  am  a  series  of 
happy  accidents.  I  never  had  a  real  trouble  in  my 
life.  And  how  delicious  the  night  is!  I  am  for  a 
swim,  and  to  bed." 

Nevertheless,  he  stood  by  the  mast  awhile,  and  then 
said,  "How  stupid  it  is  without  women,"  and  then 
presently  broke  out  in  his  clear  tenor,  a  voice  not  very 
accurate,  and  of  no  great  strength,  but  of  passionate 
sweetness : 

Good  night !    Good  night !    Ah,  good  the  night 
That  wraps  thee  in  its  silver  light. 
Good  night !     No  night  is  good  to  me 
That  does  not  bring  a  thought  of  thee — 

Good  night  1 

Good  night !    Be  every  night  as  sweet 
As  that  which  made  our  love  complete ; 
Till  that  last  night  when  death  shall  be 
One  brief  good  night  for  you  and  me  — 

Good  night ! 

A  minute  later  the  singer  went  overboard  into  the 
glory  of  luminous  gold,  amidst  which  he  swam,  laugh- 
ing out  his  joy  as  he  smote  the  water  into  light.  The 
next  day  we  left  Vincent  and  returned  home  together. 


IX. 


N  a  quiet  Sunday  afternoon  Vincent, 
St.  Glair,  and  I  were  wandering  in 
the  park.  St.  Clair  was  amusing  him- 
self over  Clayborne's  peculiarities. 
"I  wonder,"  he  cried,  "that  he  needs 
any  friends,  considering  the  many 
great  and  famous  folks  with  whom  he  associates  in 
his  library.  I  think  that  his  books  are  more  real  to 
him  than  are  we.  He  even  comes  near  to  poetry  when 
he  talks  of  them.  I  know  they  affect  him  as  they  do 
but  few.  I  declare  to  you,  I  can  tell  of  an  evening 
what  kind  of  books  he  has  been  reading.  You  know 
he  is  capable  of  awful  exercise  in  this  way,  and  will 
read  straight  through  a  day  play  after  play  of  the 
Greek  dramatists,  while  dressing,  and  at  meals,  never 
leaving  the  house.  I  have  known  Tiim  to  read  all  of 
Bossuet  without  pause,  and  when  I  asked  him  once 
what  he  had  been  doing  the  past  week,  he  said  he  had 
gone  through  Bernal  Diaz  del  Castillo  (what  a  noble 
name!),  Southey's  'Brazil/  and  a  beautiful  tome,  the 
size  of  a  small  house,  about  Peru,  by  one  Grarcilaso 
de  la  Vega.  He  showed  it  to  me.  It  has  horrible 
pictures  of  Incas  burned  alive.  I  tried  the  work  on 
Brazil  a  few  minutes.  Alas ! " 

To  this  long  discourse  about  our  friend  Vincent  and 
9 


120  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

I  listened  with  much  amusement  as  we  strolled  in  per- 
fect weather  under  the  trees  and  along  the  west  bank 
of  the  river  in  our  great  city  park. 

The  park,  clotted  with  groups  of  happy  people  en- 
joying the  quiet  and  the  green  stillness  of  the  trees, 
was  yet  so  vast  as  in  nowise  to  trouble  us  by  their 
number,  or  to  take  away  from  the  pleasant  sense  of 
ownership  we  have  in  our  many-acred  domain. 

Said  Vincent  presently,  "And  you  think,  my  dear 
fellow,  you  can  tell  what  literary  society  Clayborne  has 
been  keeping?" 

"Oh,  I  can;  indeed,  I  can,  sometimes.  One  even- 
ing (it  was  a  month  ago)  he  had  very  fine  manners. 
He  has  n't  very  good  manners  usually,  but  this  time 
he  quite  reminded  me  of — well,  of  you,  Vincent." 

"Oh,  really,"  said  our  friend;  "of  me?" 

"Yes;  and  it  turned  out  that  he  had  been,  as  one 
might  say,  to  call  on  Mme.  de  Sevigne,  and  had  met 
Beaumarchais  rather  later,  and  La  Rochefoucauld. 
He  hates  poetry, — all  modern  verse  at  least, — or  I 
would  lend  him  my  Villon,  just  to  see  what  a  delight- 
ful scamp  he  would  come  to  be  for  an  evening." 

"It  is  a  wonder  that  he  can  endure  you  at  all,"  said 
I.  "Nothing  annoys  him  more  than  vain  questions, 
as  he  calls  them ;  and  for  a  fact,  St.  Clair,  you  have 
a  distinct  capacity  in  that  line." 

"I  know  it.  He  does  n't  mind  telling  me.  He  says 
I  am  like  an  intelligent  child ;  that  I  come,  like  Ham- 
let's papa,  in  questionable  shape ;  and  such  other  felic- 
ities of  abuse." 

Much  amused,  I  glanced  from  him  to  Vincent's  face 
of  sympathetic  mirth.  The  poet  had  a  look  of  child 


CHARACTERISTICS.  121 

like  joy  at  the  remembrance  of  being  looked  upon  by 
Clayborne  as  a  troublesome  infant.  He  had  what  Vin- 
cent called  an  instinctive  nature,  and  the  world  seemed 
to  teach  him  no  lessons,  and  experience  to  fail  as  a 
schoolmaster.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  I  think  he  was  of 
us  all  the  most  happy. 

I  never  saw  any  one  quite  like  him  in  the  infantile 
way  in  which  he  could  be  influenced  for  the  time  by 
his  associations;  and  in  bad  society  he  had  been 
known  to  be  very  naughty.  But  this  neither  lasted 
very  long,  nor  affected  him  in  a  permanent  manner ; 
and  with  us  he  was  ever  at  his  best,  which  to  me  at 
least,  and  to  Vincent,  was  always  better  than  the  best 
of  most  able  men,  for  in  his  double  way  of  sculptor 
and  poet  he  was  distinctly  a  man  of  genius. 

Evidently  both  Vincent  and  I  were  at  one  and  the 
same  time  thinking,  with  our  companion  as  a  text,  for 
the  former  said  presently : 

"Your  notion  about  Clayborne  is  very  amusing." 

"And  just  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  what  you  said  of  Clayborne.  I  was  thinking 
about  it.  Your  statement  of  the  peculiarity  was — well, 
rather  poetical,  and  yet  measurably  true.  The  inter- 
course of  men  does  not  influence  his  ways  or  conduct, 
but  the  quality  of  the  books  he  has  been  reading  does 
appear  in  his  thought  and  manner." 

"Is  it  not,"  said  I,  "an  instance  of  the  automatic 
imitativeness  one  observes  as  so  variously  influential 
in  life  ?  It  is  men  who  thus  affect  me.  If  I  am  with 
a  man  of  noble  manners,  I  too  become  stately  in  my 
fashions  for  the  hour ;  and  with  rough-mannered  men 
I  find  I  must  be  on  my  guard." 


122  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Yes;  I  know  that— I  know  that,"  returned  St. 
Clair,  ruefully. 

"Great  genius,"  said  I,  "perhaps  only  the  greatest, 
escapes  the  influence  of  this  animal  quality  of  imita- 
tiveness  j  but  you  can  still  see  it  in  the  youth  of  the 
poets,  and  sometimes  even  later.  I  should  like  to  see 
an  essay  on  the  'Relations  of  the  Poet  to  Poets.'  They 
are  nearly  all  ignorantly,  or  of  purpose,  imitative  in 
their  early  verse." 

"But  is  it  not  interesting,  too,"  returned  St.  Clair, 
"to  notice  how  the  individuality  of  the  man  may  still 
exist  with  unconscious  imitation  ?  I  wonder  if  Words- 
worth knew  how  much  of  Scott  got  into  his  splendid 
ballad  of  'The  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle';  and  yet 
there  are  lines  in  it  which  only  Wordsworth  could  have 
written." 

"And,"  said  I,  "is  n't  there  a  ring  of  Byron's  vigor- 
ous march  of  verse  in  those  lines  I  love  so  well,  'Fleet 
the  Tartar's  reinless  steed' !" 

"The  same  tendency  to  borrow  form  or  matter  is 
in  the  early  compositions  of  the  great  musicians,"  re- 
marked St.  Clair.  "At  least,  so  I  am  told." 

"It  is  very  human,  no  doubt,"  I  returned;  "and  of 
course  one  sees  it  intensified  to  morbidness  in  disease 
— in  hysteria,  and  in  rare  eases  of  insanity,  where  a 
man  repeats  automatically  the  words  he  hears,  or  the 
gestures  of  the  man  at  whom  he  chances  to  be  looking. 

"Are  there  really  such  cases?"  Vincent  asked. 

"Yes ;  I  have  caught  even  myself  repeating  uncon- 
sciously the  facial  spasm  of  a  man  I  was  intensely 
watching.  The  subject  of  hypnotism  is  very  apt  to 
be  the  victim  of  suggestion,  and  to  have  set  free  that 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  123 

imitative  instinct  which  we  usually  keep  under  con- 
trol. In  fact,  these  cases  are  often  the  mere  sport  of 
varied  forms  of  suggestion.  If,  without  other  hint, 
you  pinch  together  the  frontal  muscles  of  one  of  these 
sleepers,  so  as  to  imitate  the  facial  expression  of  a 
frown,  he  will  at  once  become  angry,  perhaps  furiously 
so,  and  swear,  or  strike  a  blow.  If  you  make  his 
cheek-lines  assume  the  curves  of  mirth,  this  suggests 
amusement,  and  he  roars  with  laughter.  He  is  deli- 
cately susceptible  to  the  hint,  and  responds  at  once." 

"Then,  probably,"  said  Vincent,  "to  allow  our  feat- 
ures to  assume  the  first  slight  expression  of  passion  is 
a  step  toward  failure  of  self-control,  because  what  is 
true  of  the  morbid  in  a  high  degree  must  be  true  in  a 
measure  of  the  wholesome." 

"  Yes  j  one  sees  that  in  emotional  people.  The  yield- 
ing to  tears  is  the  first  step  down  a  bad  staircase, 
where,  soon  or  late,  serious  trouble  from  loss  of  moral 
balance  awaits  the  feeble." 

"And  to  yield,"  said  Vincent,  "is  to  make  at  last  a 
habit.  Repeated  resistance  to  the  slighter  physical 
expressions  of  emotion  must  end  in  making  self-con- 
trol easy." 

"Yes;  that  is  true.  It  is  the  constant  lesson  we 
have,  as  doctors,  to  teach  the  hysterical.  They  are 
always  in  danger  of  being  trampled  on  by  their  emo- 
tions. They  can  take  no  risks.  For  them  even  excess 
of  mirth  is  dangerous.  What  the  children  call  a  'gale 
of  laughter'  ends  abruptly  in  an  explosion  of  tears,  and 
then  the  brakes  are  off,  and  away  they  go." 

"Pathos  is  the  very  shadow  of  humor,"  returned 
Vincent.  "We  all  know  that,  and  yet  the  grave  be- 


124  CHARACTERISTICS. 

gets  the  gay  more  surely  than  the  reverse  occurs.  It 
seems  curious  that  the  expressions  of  the  two  states 
should  in  nervous  people  reverse  the  rule  of  succession. 
I  mean  that  these  should  tend  more  readily  to  pass 
from  mirth  to  tears." 

"That  is  not  accurately  correct,"  I  said.  "Tears 
with  them  beget  laughter,  and  the  opposite  is  also 
true." 

"You  men  are  getting  out  of  my  depth,"  cried  St. 
Clair.  "I  hate  self-control  except  in  other  people.  It 
creates  habits,  and  I  loathe  them.  The  only  habit  I 
have  is  the  habit  of  having  no  habits ;  one  inherits  too 
many  as  it  is.  There  is  a  nice  story  in  that  big  book 
on  Brazil ;  it  is  the  only  thing  I  got  out  of  it.  It  will 
answer  to  kill  your  large  talk.  An  ancient  Indian  con- 
vert of  the  Jesuits,  at  Para,  was  sick  to  death,  and  be- 
ing asked  by  the  good  padre  what  delicacies  he  would 
like  to  comfort  him  on  his  way  to  purgatory,  said,  'I 
should  like  the  tender  hand  of  a  Tapuya  boy,  well 
broiled.'" 

"Certainly  it  illustrates  the  permanence  of  original 
habits,"  said  Vincent,  laughing.  "But  habit — " 

"Oh,  don't  begin  again,"  cried  St.  Clair,  who  pro- 
fessed to  detest  psychological  talk.  "Look  at  what 
you  are  missing." 

"You  are  right,"  returned  Vincent.  "  'Your  solid 
man  sees  not  the  sky.'  Is  n't  that  Emerson  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  St.  Clair ;  "and  his  is  also,  'Show  me  thy 
face,  dear  Nature,  that  I  may  forget  my  own.'  That 
is  what  this  is  good  for." 

As  he  spoke,  he  led  us  through  a  hedge  of  under- 
brush, and  we  came  out  on  a  green  space  with  groups 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  125 

of  stately  tulip-trees  and  oaks.  A  little  beyond  them 
a  marble-paved  spring  welcomed  us.  Overhead  were 
maples  of  great  size  and  breadth  of  wholesome  leaf- 
age. Their  roots  were  peeping  out  in  white  fibrous 
bunches  into  the  half -choked  spring,  alongside  of  which 
St.  Glair  threw  himself  at  length,  while  Vincent  and  I 
sat  down  on  the  grass  at  a  little  distance.  For  a  while 
we  said  nothing.  The  clouds  mottled  the  sunshine  on 
the  woods  and  turf  as  they  sailed  overhead,  and  the 
waters,  finding  a  voice  with  their  new  birth,  troub- 
lously  whirled  around  the  stone-built  pool,  and  gurgled 
out  through  an  irregular  latticework  of  roots,  mur- 
muring more  and  more  noisily  as  they  tumbled  down 
the  slope. 

Meanwhile  I  watched  our  poet's  face.  His  cap  was 
off,  and  below  the  crown  of  brown  half  curls  his  face 
expressed  in  its  varying  lines  a  sense  of  the  joy  he 
felt.  I  knew  that  he  was  more  near  akin  to  it  all 
than  we. 

As  I  looked,  Vincent  called  my  attention  to  a  tree 
near  by,  and,  rising,  for  a  few  minutes  we  wandered 
away.  As  we  returned,  I  touched  Vincent's  arm,  and 
we  stood  silently  observant.  St.  Clair  lay  on  his  back 
beside  the  spring,  dabbling  in  it  with  his  hand,  his 
head  against  the  rising  bank  of  turf.  I  had  seen  him 
in  such  a  mood  before.  He  was  improvising.  Quite 
unconscious  of  our  presence,  he  broke  out  into  verse, 
and  then  fell  away  to  prose  again,  or  let  fall  a  rime. 

"I  see  it,  I  hear  it ;  a  fawn  I  be,  and  this  is  my  play- 
mate, new-born  like  me.  A  fawn  on  the  hillside,  a 
brooklet  is  he.  How  the  water  finds  a  voice,  and  war- 
bles meaningless  things ;  sobs  and  cries  like  an  infant 


126  CHARACTERISTICS. 

just  born !  I  break  the  clear  mirror,  I  prance  in  the 
stream  j  I  laugh  with  its  laughter,  I  dream  with  its 
dream.  It  does  not  wait  for  me,  my  new  playmate. 
It  is  off  and  away:  past  rocks  we  go,  twin-leaping 
things,  until  at  the  cliff -verge  I  see  it  spring  from 
the  edge.  I  dare  not  to  follow  the  curve  of  its  leap. 
I  hear  its  wild  cry.  Is  it  dead  or  asleep  ?  'Mid  the 
ferns  far  below  lies  a  quiet  smoothness,  so  still,  ah,  so 
still!  Are  yon  dead,  pleasant  comrade?  Then  with 
fear  I  go  down,  with  my  sharp  ears  intent,  until  far 
away  on  the  grass-slopes  I  find  my  little  friend.  I 
see  it  trickle  out  of  the  rocks  in  jets,  and  remake  it- 
self again,  and  go  athwart  the  slope,  joyously  tossing 
the  grasses  on  its  way.  Then  I  know  that  my  new- 
born friend  can  take  no  harm,  and  is  as  the  gods — 
immortal." 

"  Is  this  the  way  they  make  verse  ? "  whispered 
Vincent 

We  need  not  have  feared  to  disturb  him.  St.  Clair 
was  at  times  more  simple  than  a  child  with  its  mother. 
He  turned,  in  no  wise  embarrassed.  The  mood  of 
wrapt,  fanciful  thought  was  gone,  and,  sitting  up,  he 
said  pleasantly,  "Ah,  you  heard  me.  By  Zeus !  but  a 
fawn  I  was  for  the  moment."  Meanwhile  Vincent 
looked  on,  in  his  face  a  faint  expression  of  withheld 
surprise  at  the  naturalness  of  the  man. 

"Were  I  you,  I  would  carve  me  a  new-born  fawn  by 
the  just-born  fountain,"  said  I,  "and  put  your  mood  in 
verse  on  the  rock  near  by." 

"I  could  not,"  cried  St.  Clair;  "I  could  not  The 
song  is  gone.  To  sing  it  anew,  I  should  have  to  re- 
capture the  mood,  and  that  is  impossible. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  127 

"I  heard  a  bird  in  the  air  above 
Sing,  as  he  flew,  a  song  of  love. 
To  earth,  from  heaven  overhead, 
All  the  soul  of  love  it  said ; 
But  the  bird  is  gone,  the  song  is  dead, 
And  heaven  is  empty  overhead. 
If  I  were  the  bird,  or  the  song  were  I, 
I  may  not  know  until  I  die, 
And  somewhere  in  the  world  to  be, 
Chant  again,  with  soul  set  free, 
Its  rapture  of  felicity." 

"Whose  is  that?"  said  I. 

"Mine.  I  made  it  for  you  now  as  it  came.  I  like 
it;  I  shall  not  to-morrow.  Do  you  like  it,  Vincent?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  have  been  shaking  myself  up  in- 
wardly like  a  kaleidoscope  to  see  if  I  could  get  my 
confused  mental  atoms,  by  happy  chance,  into  some 
form  of  sympathy  with  you  and  yours.  I  cannot." 

"And,"  said  the  joyous  face  looking  up  at  him,  "it 
seems  to  you  nonsense.  Does  n't  it,  now?" 

"Not  that,  not  just  that,  but  incredible,  curious; 
and,  frankly,  I  do  not  care  about  it  as  a  product.  I  see 
it  gives  you  and  others  pleasure.  It  gives  me  little. 
Sometimes  I  like  the  verses  which  jingle  agreeably." 

"O  Vincent!     Well—" 

"Yes;  I  suppose  rime  is  the  sugar  of  verse,  but  I 
soon  find  it  is  only  the  sugar  I  am  liking,  and  at  the 
end  I  can't  tell  what  it  all  meant." 

"He  has  been  reading  Swinburne,"  cried  St.  Glair. 
"A  wild  debauch  of  rime  and  rhythms,  and  the  sense 
gets  seasick  on  a  rolling  ocean  of  rhythmic  billows. 
I  hate  him.  You  like  Owen  Meredith.  I  know  it ;  I 
am  sure,"  he  added,  with  mild  scorn. 


128  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Vincent,  smiling.  "I  do — some- 
times— a  little  —  not  much." 

"It  is  a  demi-mundane  creature,  not  a  poet  at  all" 

"I  can  read  Milton  and  Browning — some  of  him  — 
and  Pope,"  said  Vincent,  defensively. 

"And  the  greatest— what  of  them?"  said  I.  "We 
may  as  well  know  all  your  wickedness." 

"Oh,  those.  Those  are  the  revelations.  'The  gods 
who  speak  in  men.' " 

"And  Wordsworth  ?"  said  St.  Clair,  wistfully,  and  as 
if  he  were  tenderly  mentioning  some  well-loved  woman. 
"Out  with  it!" 

"And  Wordsworth?"  repeated  Vincent.  "Do  not 
fear  that  I  shall  be  so  commonplace  as  to  sneer  at  him. 
Yes ;  I  can  read  him.  But  how  was  it  that  he  could  fly 
to-day  and  crawl  to-morrow — never  seemed  to  know 
if  he  were  in  heaven  or  of  the  merest  earth  ?  Tell  me 
why  so  many  poets  lack  power  to  criticize  their  own 
work,  and  yet  the  making  of  it  presupposes  critical  la- 
bor soon  or  late.  The  poem  you  began  to  quote  from 
Wordsworth  the  other  day  I  had  never  chanced  upon. 
I  went  home,  and  read  and  learned  it.  The  first  two 
verses  I  care  less  for,  but  the  last  is  like  a  storm  for 
vigor,  like  a  trumpet  for  power  to  stir  you ;  and  yet  I 
do  not  see  them  in  any  of  the  volumes  of  selections." 

"Say  them,"  said  St.  Clair. 

"I  can.  You  of  course  know  them;  they  record 
the  fate  of  the  French  armies  in  Russia. 

"Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed, 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  monarch  freed, 
And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his  kind, 


CHARACTERISTICS.  129 

And  bade  the  snow  their  ample  backs  bestride, 
And  to  the  battle  ride. 
No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt, 
No  courage  can  repel  the  dire  assault ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink  —  and,  in  one  instant,  find 
Burial  and  death :  Look  for  them — and  descry, 
When  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky, 
A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  vacancy. 

How  the  first  line  tramps  through  one's  brain,  and  ho"W 
solemn  is  the  silence  in  which  the  ending  leaves  you ! 
Pardon  me,  St.  Clair,  if  again  I  am  stupid  enough  to 
wonder  how  he  who  struck  this  note  could — " 

"No,  no,  Fred ! "  exclaimed  the  poet.  "  The  children 
of  the  brain  are  like  the  children  of  the  body.  You 
say  that  is  a  fine  lad,  and  how  crooked  is  his  sister. 
Do  you  think  the  father  feels  responsible  ?" 

"Ah,  my  dear  St.  Clair,  illustrations  are  full  of  peril. 
Verse  has  no  grandfathers,  and,  really,  I  think  some 
of  your  master's  acknowledged  offspring  might  have 
been  left  at  his  doorstep  in  a  basket  by — by — " 

"Now,  take  care  !"  laughed  St.  Clair. 

"Well,  by  some  Muse  of  easy  virtue." 

The  poet  laughed,  and  then  said  thoughtfully: 
"The  answer  lies  here.  All  the  great  poets  have 
written  much.  That  is  as  if  you  were  to  say  that  you 
or  I  talk  much.  Verse  is  their  natural  mode  of  ex- 
pression, and  there  being  in  many  of  them  a  childlike 
despotism  of  temperament  which  the  world  cannot 
subdue,  they  sing  what  they  feel,  or  think,  or  desire. 
That  is  all  of  it,  Vincent — or  one  word  more.  This 
must  result  in  the  product  being  often  poor.  But  then 
a  time  comes  when  health,  joy,  opportunity,  sugges- 


]  30  CHARACTERISTICS. 

tion,  nourish  the  prosperous  hour,  and  something  great 
is  done." 

"But,"  urged  Vincent,  "why  cannot  they,  like  other 
men,  see  where  and  how  they  have  failed,  and  then 
suppress  for  us  the  mass  of  stuff  they  leave  us?" 

"Let  me  answer  him,"  said  I.  "For  the  lover  of 
verse  there  is  less  of  this  than  you  think,  and  among 
the  worst  products  of  the  best  men  there  are  lines  one 
would  not  lose.  This  is  true  even  of  the  lesser  poets 
— Crabbe,  Somerville.  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
written  those  lines  on  a  good  physician, 

"  And  well  he  knew  to  understand 
The  poor  man's  cry  as  God's  command. 

Yet,  who  reads  Somerville  I* 

"Remember,  too,"  said  St.  Clair,  "that  self-criticism 
is  a  thing  in  its  fulness  impossible.  A  man  would 
have  to  forget  and  live  again.  The  poem  is,  for  the 
writer,  a  thing  made  up  of  the  poem  and  the  remem- 
brance of  all  that  went  to  form  it — the  joy,  the  pain, 
and  what  not.  It  has  for  him  the  delightfulness  the 
new-born  child  has  for  the  mother.  A  poet  once  said 
to  me,  'I  make  my  poems  swiftly,  when  in  the  mood, 
and  afterward,  except  as  to  minor  verbal  changes,  am 
about  as  helplessly  uncritical  as  is  a  bird  of  its  song. 
Always  my  last  is  for  me  my  best,  and  then  in  a  year 
I  cease  to  love  it.  But,  surely,  as  nurses  say,  my  last 
poem  puts  out  of  joint  the  noses  of  all  the  rest.'" 

"I  have  not  heard  that  bit  of  nursery-talk  since  I 
was  a  boy,"  said  Vincent.  "It  is  more  meaningless 
than  most  of  our  childish  folk-lore.  But  you  have  not 
answered  me  j  you  have  only  restated  the  facts." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  131 

"I  think  I  have  answered  you,"  said  St.  Clair ;  "and 
you  must  remember  that  what  another  says  of  a  poet's 
verse  (however  just  the  comment)  is  to  the  poet  as 
mere  babble.  And  then,  too,  the  great  critics  are  more 
rare  than  the  great  poets,  which  is  curious  to  me,  but 
I  think  true." 

"Some  one  should  write  the  history  of  criticism," 
said  Vincent. 

"Do  you  know  Dallas— 'The  Gay  Art'?" 

"No,  or  rather  yes ;  it  is  an  unreadable  book,  despite 
its  learning.  Even  Clayborne  could  hardly  stand  a 
full  dose  of  it.  I  read  a  goodly  part  of  it  with  wonder 
and  fatigue." 

"I  doubt,"  said  St.  Clair,  "if  any  man  who  writes 
were  ever  the  better  for  the  critics — I  mean  as  a 
writer." 

"That  appears  to  me  absurd,"  said  Vincent.  "A 
good  course  of  Sainte-Beuve  might  make  you  believe 
that  such  a  thing  should  be  possible,  unless  all  men 
who  write  are  idiots." 

"But  in  this  country,"  I  urged,  "we  have  only  one 
critic  worth  the  name,  and  he  has  no  ear  except  for 
the  past.*  Yes;  we  could  give  up  one  half  of  our 
authors  for  a  critic  like  the  author  of  the  'Causeries 
du  Lundi.'  Come,  let  us  go.  Come."  And  we  moved 
through  the  field  and  into  a  noble  woodland. 

"Look  at  that  creeper,"  said  St.  Clair.  "An  English 
friend  wrote  me  last  year  to  ask  what  I  meant  by 

"Autumn  vines 
Ablaze  within  the  somber  pines." 

*  And  now,  alas  I  since  these  lines  were  written,  he,  too,  be- 
longs to  the  past. 


132  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"And  pretty  hard  it  must  be  on  the  Canadian  poets," 
langhed  Vincent,  "that  along  the  rivers  of  New  Bruns- 
wick the  wild  rose  has  no  thorns.  There  is  a  frog- 
pond  below  us.  Just  hear  them ;  they  speak  all  the 
tongues.  The  American  boy  calls  them  'bloody 
nouns.'  Do  they  say  that?" 

"They  do,"  said  I,  "and  anything  else  you  please. 
I  wonder  what  Russian  frogs  say ;  the  Greek  frog  is 
immortal.  I  once  fell  in  with  some  ex-rebel  briga- 
diers in  North  Carolina,  and,  among  other  good  things, 
I  carried  away  one  delightful  frog  story.  I  wish  I 
could  give  it  tie  flavor  of  the  very  pleasant  Southern 
tongue. 

"The  Yankee  soldier,  settled  in  Roanoke  Island  after 
the  war,  complains  of  his  fate. 

"  'No,  sir ;  I  don't  git  on,  I  'm  that  bothered.  I  don't 
mind  bein'  shot  at — used  to  that ;  and  I  don't  mind 
cussin' — cusses  is  soft  sort  of  things.  But  when  a 
fellow 's  tired  'bout  sundown,  and  ye  gits  seated  on  a 
smooth-topped  fence-rail,  and  tucks  yer  toes  under  the 
third  rail,  and  lights  yer  corn-cob  pipe,  and  is  jus' 
comfortable,  and  ye  git  to  thinkin'  of  the  ole  home 
and  the  apple-orchard  and  bees — then  them  thar 
derned  grayback  frogs  commences.  And  one  of  'em 
he  says,  "Bull  Run!"  and  another  he  says,  "Ball's 
Bluff ! "  and  at  las'  one  little  cuss  gits  up  on  his  toes 
'way  out  in  the  ma'sh,  and  he  says,  "  Cheeckahominy ! " 
I  can't  stand  them  there  frogs.  I  'm  jus'  goin'  to  leave.' " 

"The  story  is  rapidly  improving  under  your  hands," 
said  Vincent. 

"For  shame,"  I  returned.     "What  ingratitude ! " 

"Odd,  is  n't  it,"  said  St.  Clair,  "that  every  one  has  a 


CHAKACTERISTICS.  133 

kind  of  tender  feeling  for  frogs,  and  worse  than  none 
for  toads?" 

"I  admit  it,"  said  I.  "I  loathe  toads.  As  a  fact, 
they  secrete  from  the  skin-glands  an  acrid  and  quite 
deadly  poison;  if  for  defense  or  not,  I  cannot  say. 
But  come,  it  is  getting  late." 

"One  moment,"  said  Vincent.  "Before  we  go,  do 
look  at  these  trees.  Really,  there  are  few  such  collec- 
tions of  unusual  trees.  These  cypresses  are  old  friends 
of  mine ;  this  must  be  their  northern  limit." 

"Of  course  they  are  not  natives,"  I  said.  "And 
they  have  lost  their  southern  habit  of  sending  up  little 
conical  shoots  from  the  roots — what  they  call  'knees' 
in  the  South — a  puzzle  to  the  botanists." 

"Probably  want  of  moisture  has  to  do  with  their  ab- 
sence here,  because  our  monumental  cypress  at  Bar- 
tram's  garden  in  wet  ground  has  numberless  knees. 
Only  a  few  miles  from  here  stands  the  most  northern 
papaw-tree." 

"Do  you  remember,"  I  said  to  Vincent,  "that  it  was 
under  that  great  cypress  you  and  I  first  met?" 

"I  do,  and  pleasantly  well  I  remember.  We  were 
only  lads  then.  You  were  looking  up  at  its  vast 
branchings  with  your  hat  off.  You  uncovered  as  you 
approached  it." 

"It  is  a  feeling  I  often  have  that  I  must  uncover 
to  a  tree  like  that.  I  have  always  felt  grateful  to  the 
sturdy  old  fellow  who  silently  introduced  us  to  each 
other." 

"That 's  rather  nice,"  said  St.  Glair.  "About  trees 
we  are  all  of  a  mind.  I  wonder  there  never  was  a  tree 
worship." 


134  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

"And,"  I  added,  "what  various  pleasure  one  gets 
out  of  them,  how  many  kinds  of  joy." 

"I  have  said  before,"  remarked  Vincent,  "where  my 
own  limitations  lie.  My  pleasure  is  in  simple  obser- 
vation. When  people  talk  of  books  which  influenced 
them,  I  gratefully  think  that  it  was  Ruskin  who  taught 
me  what  to  see,  how  to  see,  and  the  happiness  of  it. 
Then  I  would  come  to  a  place  where  he  spread  wings 
of  a  larger  delight,  and  left  me  sighing." 

"One  should  train  children  to  see,"  I  said;  "really 
to  see.  What  is  to  be  had  in  the  way  of  enjoyment 
out  of  the  trained  powers  of  the  naturalist  none  know 
who  are  not  familiar  with  the  higher  grade  of  such 
students." 

"And  that  I  can  more  easily  comprehend,"  returned 
Vincent. 

"You  ought  to  know  Leidy,"*  I  said.  "You  remem- 
ber my  speaking  once  of  his  memory  for  specific 
names.  As  were  Agassiz  and  Wyman,  so  is  he  to- 
day a  delightful  companion.  He  would  stand  here 
and  call  by  name  every  living  thing,  and  the  stones 
beneath  your  feet  also.  Turn  over  a  bit  of  rock,  and 
as  the  queer  tiny  menagerie  of  its  sheltered  life  scut- 
tles out,  he  knows  them  one  and  all — their  lives,  their 
marriages,  what  they  eat,  their  ways,  their  deaths,  a 
hundred  little  dramas  of  this  swarming  vitality.  And 
then  the  knowledge  is  all  so  easily  given,  with  so  much 
placid  enjoyment,  with  such  childlike  directness,  and 
yet  with  but  little  sense  of  the  deeper  poetic  relation- 
ships which  they  bring  to  a  rare  few.  He  has  the 
morale  of  the  best  naturalists — simplicity,  earnestness, 
*  This  greatest  of  our  naturalists  is  since  dead. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  135 

and  magnanimity.  To  help  others  to  observe  is  his 
greatest  joy,  and,  my  dear  St.  Glair,  he  does  not  really 
care  a  sixpence  for  all  the  poetry  from  Homer  to  Long- 
fellow." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  the  sculptor.  "If  that  is  where 
science  takes  a  man,  leave  me  to  my  folly." 

"Happy  man!"  said  Vincent.  "Come,  the  dew  is 
falling ;  let  us  go." 

"The  dew  is  condensing  on  the  chilled  earth,  Mr. 
Philosopher,"  I  said.  "It  only  falls  for  poets." 

"Come,"  said  St.  Clair ;  "I  am  tired." 

After  this  the  talk  died  out,  and  in  the  shadows  we 
wandered  along  the  river-bank  until  the  lights  of  the 
town  appeared  in  lanes  of  red  on  the  water  and  in  a 
broad  glow  of  luminous  reflection  from  the  sky  above. 


10 


OMETIMES  it  happened  that  I  saw 
often  one  or  another  of  the  three 
men  I  called  friends.  Vincent  and 
I  were  both  busy.  St.  Clair  was  at 
times  invisible  for  days  5  was  shut  up 
with  statues,  or  away  alone  on  the 
hills  or  by  the  sea.  He  used  to  say :  "Every  man  has 
need  at  times  of  a  monastic  life.  If  he  cannot  make 
one  for  himself,  he  must  be  a  poor  creature.  If  I  were 
married,  I  should  desire  divorce  for  six  months  in  each 
year." 

As  to  Clayborne,  he  was  always  accessible,  and,  as  I 

have  said,  Vincent  alone  was  married.    I  myself  had 

had  in  earlier  life  a  great  trouble.    For  months  it  had 

left  me  like  one  who  has  been  near  to  death,  and 

escaped.     In  fact,  it  came  close  to  being  the  foolish 

death  of  all  tender  sentiment,  of  all  respect  for  women. 

I  From  this  I  had  the  wholesome  logical  recoil  brought 

\  about  by  the  tremendous  business  called  war.   It  saved 

'  me  from  a  fate  worse  than  its  bullets  prepared  for  me. 

That  Vincent  and  his  wife  knew  my  story  helped  to 

increase  my  intimacy  with  him.    "We,  too,  were  also 

of  the  busy  world  of  men  and  affairs,  in  which  St. 

Clair  and  Clayborne  had  no  share,  the  one  being  in- 


CHARACTERISTICS.  137 

different,  the  other  mildly  scornful.  None  of  us  were 
what  I  call  ordinary  men  j  and,  indeed,  Vincent  used 
to  say  that,  to  complete  our  group,  we  needed  some 
merely  good  fellow,  who  would  represent  the  common- 
place and  commercial  aspects  of  every-day  life. 

I  called  one  morning  upon  Vincent  on  my  way  to 
the  hospital.  He  came  down  to  his  library  at  once, 
and  made  me  welcome  with  the  cordiality  which  has  so 
much  value  in  a  man  by  habit  reserved  and  tranquil. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "since  you  have  been  away  our  poor 
iron-worker  is  able  to  move  about  on  crutches,  and  is 
going  to  make  a  little  money  out  of  his  patent.  St. 
Clair  is  anywhere.  As  to  Clayborne,  he  is  just  now 
writing  like  mad.  Some  fellow  in  Berlin  says  he  has 
made  grave  errors  in  facts  in  that  last  book.  You 
should  see  him  ;  you  would  think  the  man  had  phys- 
ically insulted  him." 

"And  the  good  wife?"  I  said. 

Oh,  well ;  and,  by  George !  North,  she  has  another 
oung  woman  in  training  for  you.     Look  out.    It  will 
be  the  woman  you  take  in  to  dinner  the  first  time  you 
dine  here." 

"'Who  feels  the  warmth  escapes  the  fire.'  Come  in 
to-night  j  I  have  an  ocean  of  talk  dammed  up  for  you. 
Come  late." 

"I  will.  I  meant  to  see  you  on  a  professional 
matter ;  it  will  keep  until  then." 

As  we  went  through  the  hall,  Mrs.  Vincent  appeared 
on  the  stair.  "How  lucky  to  catch  you!  How  well 
you  look !  Come  and  dine  on  Friday  night.  You  need 
not  think  about  it.  I  say  yes  for  you  ;  it  is  settled." 

Vincent  smiled. 


138  CHARACTERISTICS. 

I  said,  "It  were  useless  to  hesitate  over  so  impla- 
cable a  fate,"  and  went  away. 

That  evening,  late,  I  sat  in  what  the  American 
doctor  calls  his  office,  but  which  was  for  me  rather  a 
library,  as  the  many  tools  my  work  required  were  kept 
out  of  view  in  another  room.  I  had  none  of  Clay- 
borne's  desire  to  be  walled  in  with  books.  The  few 
I  loved  best,  a  couple  of  hundred,  were  on  one  wall  in 
low  shelves.  Another  case  was  full  of  dictionaries  (of 
which  I  am  fond),  and  the  walls  were  covered  above 
with  pictures,  prints,  etchings,  and  the  hundred  me- 
morials of  a  life  of  war,  travel,  and  varied  tastes  and 
interests. 

"I  want  at  least  an  hour,"  said  Vincent,  as  he  en- 
tered. 

"Then  give  me  first  ten  minutes,  Fred,"  I  said.  "I 
have  some  notes  to  answer.  I  can  write  and  talk,  too, 
in  a  way." 

I  gave  such  orders  as  would  leave  us  undisturbed, 
and  went  on  with  my  work,  while  Vincent,  putting  a 
portfolio  on  the  table,  took  a  cigar  and  wandered 
about  the  room. 

"If  you  really  do  not  mind  my  talking — " 

"Oh,  no ;  not  in  the  least." 

"Well,  if  I  say  anything  worth  answering  you  may 
reply  or  not.  You  have  been  shifting  your  pictures, 
I  see.  We  both  have  that  fancy  for  rearrangement. 
I  like  to  prowl  about  a  man's  living-room ;  there  is  a 
sense  of  animal  freedom  in  the  name  he  gives  it, — a 
den, — and  yours  is  full  of  the  bones  of  things  past. 
Few  women  get  much  character  into  their  rooms.  The 
very  derivation  of  the  name  they  bear  is  unamiable. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  139 

I  could  tell  that  you  have  the  taste  of  the  savage  for 
pronounced  color,  and  for  disorder,  too." 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  laughing.  "I  shall  presently  have 
my  whole  biography  evolved  out  of  my  surround- 
ings. I  simply  loathe  the  precision  of  that  table  of 
yours." 

"Yes,"  said  Vincent;  "no  doubt.  It  would  annoy 
me  to  have  it  otherwise,  and  I  prefer  to  pamper  my 
own  feelings  rather  than  at  their  cost  to  coddle  my 
friend's  sentiments.  I  am  naturally  selfish." 

"Cold  and  indifferent,"  I  went  on. 

"So  says  the  world ;  but,  really,  I  do  not  think  I  am. 
I  am  as  tender  inside  as  a  crab,  and  sometimes  I  get 
into  the  soft-shell  state,  and  then  alas!  But  as  for 
you,"  he  added,  "it  is  quite  true  that  your  room  is 
characteristic,  at  least  of  your  tastes — even  of  your 
sentiments.  Your  table  represents  order  amidst  ap- 
pearance of  disorder.  I  should  say  you  had  trained 
yourself  to  be  methodical  from  absolute  need  to  be  so. 
Also  you  are  a  hero-worshiper." 

"Am  I  ?  I  could  wish  it  were  more  common.  But," 
I  added,  dropping  my  pen,  "  I  have  done.  You  have 
not  yet  noticed  the  new  bronze  of  one  of  my  heroes." 
I  directed  his  attention  to  a  mask  of  Lincoln. 

He  stood  a  moment  regarding  it  with  interest. 
"  Curious,  that,"  he  remarked.  "  The  side  face  smiles ; 
there  is  humor  in  it.  That  is  an  immense  help  in  a 
serious  life.  It  is  the  gentlest  and  wisest  of  critics. 
And  the  full  face  is  grave  and  homely." 

"  Do  you  see  any  resemblance  to  the  masks  of  Crom- 
well?" 

"  Faintly.    And  to  Luther,  who  resembled  Lincoln 


140  CHARACTERISTICS. 

strongly  in  some  ways;  but  the  German  face  was 
coarser." 

"To  Lincoln,"  I  said,  "humor  was  both  sword 
and  shield;  and  yet  he  escaped  that  evil  influence 
which  for  some  who  possess  it  largely  makes  men  like 
Greeley  absurd,  or  too  ridiculous  for  charitable  treat- 
ment." 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  intellectually  helpful 
to  the  man.  Certainly  it  aided  him  to  understand  a 
people  who  are  at  once  the  gravest  on  earth  and  the 
most  humorous." 

"  I  suspect,"  said  I,  "  that  it  plays  a  larger  part  on 
the  stage  of  life,  even  of  the  largest  lives,  than  men 
suppose,  and,  assuredly,  it  is  a  quality  which  asserts 
itself  even  when  death  is  near.  Its  absence  is  fatal  to 


some  careers." 

"  There  is  none  of  it  in  this  other  hero  of  yours — in 
his  face,  at  least,"  returned  Vincent,  turning  to  look  at 
a  noble  portrait  of  William  Harvey. 

"Not  in  the  face,"  I  said,  "nor  in  his  life  as  we 
knew  it  until  quite  lately.  But  in  his  notes  for  lect- 
ures on  anatomy,  just  published,  there  is  plenty  of  it. 
Very  early  in  his  career,  not  remote  from  the  date  of 
Shakspere's  death,  he  must  have  been  pretty  surely 
aware  of  the  true  doctrine  of  the  circulation  of  the 
blood,  but,  although  he  discussed  it  for  his  class,  he 
waited  many  years  before  he  put  it  into  print.  Imag- 
ine such  reticent  patience  in  these  noisy  days  of  hurry 
and  scramble  to  get  the  last  novelty  into  print,  lest  it 
should  be  found  out  and  made  public  by  some  one  else. 
Haste  does  not  belong  to  genius.  That  has  the  pa- 
tience which  seems  to  have  been  assigned  by  nature 


CHARACTERISTICS.  141 

to  all  forms  of  the  creative  faculty.  For  the  gods,  and 
for  genius,  time  is  not." 

"  How  un-English  the  face  is,"  said  Vincent.  "  The 
type  is  that  of  a  New  England  professor.  The  hands 
are  badly  drawn." 

"No;  that  is  the  gout.  The  painter  knew  better 
than  to  manufacture  hands  for  him.  You  are  right  in 
the  belief  that  he  is  one  of  my  heroes.  He  had  every 
quality  I  should  desire.  He  was  grave,  but  humorous ; 
gentle,  but  courageous;  magnanimous,  truthful,  pa- 
tient, and  religious  j  and,  above  all,  simple.  I  said  he 
had  humor.  Some  idiots  have  been  saying  of  late  that 
Bacon  wrote  Shakspere's  plays.  One  point  settled  it 
for  me.  Humor  is  a  light  no  man  can  hide.  Bacon 
has  none  of  it,  and  it  is  everywhere  in  Shakspere." 

"  The  point,"  said  Vincent,  "  as  we  lawyers  put  it,  is 
well  taken." 

"  Here  are  Harvey's  lecture  notes,"  I  went  on.  "  The 
other  day  I  reread  his  life  by  Willis.  Unluckily,  we 
know  little  of  him,  and  grave  text-books  of  science 
give  small  chance  for  play  of  humorous  thought ;  but 
in  these  notes  we  catch  him  in  a  familiar  hour.  See 
how  crabbed  is  the  English  hand  of  that  day.  The 
notes,  you  see,  are  a  medley  of  Latin  and  English. 
He  has  set  down  headings  and  hints  for  illustrations. 
The  humor  is  quaint.  An  acid  taste  rising  from  the 
stomach  into  the  mouth  reminds  him  of  a  motion  from 
the  Lower  to  the  Upper  House  of  Parliament — l  ventris 
inferni '  (nasty),  he  says, '  yett  recompensed  by  admiry ' 
(admirable  variety).  The  brain  is  the  parlor,  the 
stomach  the  kitchen,  and  so  on.  But  what  is  it  you 
want,  Fred  ? " 


142  CHARACTEKISTICS. 

"I  want  a  little  professional  help.  Last  week  a 
woman  came  to  consult  me,  a  slight,  tall  person,  re- 
markably graceful,  rather  pretty,  and,  I  may  say,  well- 
bred — a  lady.  She  said  that  the  case  she  wished  to 
lay  before  me  was  of  a  criminal  nature.  I  replied  that 
I  did  not  practise  in  the  courts  of  criminal  law. 

"  She  returned  at  once,  '  No,  I  was  aware  of  that ; 
but  I  need  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  my  own  class,  and, 
above  all,  one  capable  of  imagining  as  possible  what 
seems  to  most  men  incredible.' 

"I  said  at  once,  'Sit  down.7  Her  evident  intelli- 
gence, her  calmness  of  statement,  and  her  pretty  man- 
ners excited  my  sympathy.  I  begged  her  to  go  on. 
She  was  a  better  witness  than  most,  but  her  story  was 
a  long  one.  I  have  condensed  it  into  a  few  pages.  I 
will  read  them.  Make  your  comments,  or,  better,  note 
them  for  discussion  afterward. 

"Seven  years  ago  J.  C ,  aged  thirty,  married 

a  woman  of  twenty  in  a  Western  city.  She  was 
rich,  very  rich,  I  may  say,  and  in  person  as  I  de- 
scribed her. 

"  J.  C ,  a  man  of  refined  and  scholarly  tastes,  a 

student  of  Oriental  languages,  failed  in  business  soon 
after  their  marriage.  She  induced  him  to  retire  to  the 
country,  where  they  possessed,  on  a  Western  lake,  a 
charming  home.  He  was  a  man  without  other  than 
mere  intellectual  tastes,  slight,  but  healthy;  refined, 
gentle,  and  of  a  temper  generally  gay.  At  times,  but 
rarely,  he  was  subject  to  depression,  and  was  never 
happy  away  from  his  wife  and  only  child.  In  youth 
he  had  been  a  sleep-walker.  His  father  died  early  of 
palsy.  The  father  was  an  only  child." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  143 

""A  neurotic  family,"  I  said,  "and  two  generations  of 
one  child  each.  Some  element  of  weakness.  Go  on." 

"One  year  ago  she  received  a  check  for  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  the  amount  of  a  mortgage  paid  off. 
She  indorsed  it  over  to  him  to  enable  him  to  arrange, 
in  a  city  near  by,  for  the  payment  of  the  only  business 
debt  he  had  left,  and,  very  happy  at  the  promised  re- 
lease, he  left  her. 

"  On  his  arrival  at  M ,  he  wrote  her  that  he  had 

never  been  more  glad,  and  that  he  was  about  to  be  rid 
of  the  one  burden  which  had  troubled  a  life  otherwise 
entirely  happy.  From  that  day  until  a  month  back, 
he  was  never  heard  of.  He  drew  the  money  from  the 
bank,  paid  no  one,  was  known  to  have  taken  an  East- 
ern-bound train,  and  that  was  all. 

"  The  woman's  distress  of  mind  was  evident  to  me, 
but  she  had  all  of  that  self-control  which  belongs 
to  the  thoroughbred  woman,  and,  despite  her  distress, 
was  clear  and  exact  in  her  statements.  By  and  by  it 
became  only  too  plain  that  she  was  a  deserted  wife. 
The  detectives,  whom  at  last  she  employed,  traced  him 
to  this  city,  and  here  lost  the  clue.  He  was  gone. 
The  case  got  into  the  papers,  and  was  a  nine-day 
wonder. 

"  Meanwhile,  two  months  passed,  and  Mrs.  C , 

having  paid  his  debts  in  full,  came  hither  to  live,  with 
some  vague  hope  of  finding  him  ;  and  now  comes  the 
second  and  more  curious  part  of  her  story.  It  is  al- 
most as  incredible  as  anything  in  fiction. 

"After  living  here  until  July,  and  exhausting  the 
powers  of  the  police,  she  went  one  day  to  the  post-office 
to  ask  for  a  letter  which  had  been  underpaid.  At  the 


144  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

general-delivery  window  the  clerk  was  running  over  a 
bundle  of  letters,  and,  as  she  waited,  threw  them  one 
by  one  on  the  window-shelf.  Suddenly  the  handwrit- 
ing on  a  letter  caught  Mrs.  C 's  eye.  She  said, '  Is 

not  that  a  letter  for  me?'  The  man  said,  'Which? 
What  letter?' 

" '  Oh,  the  last  but  one  you  threw  down.' 

" '  Your  name  is  ? ' 

"  She  mentioned  it. 

"  He  returned,  '  There  is  no  such  name  in  this  lot.' 

"  She  turned  away,  went  at  once  to  the  office  of  the 
postmaster,  and,  simply  telling  her  story,  said  she  had 
recognized  her  husband's  handwriting  in  the  address 
of  a  letter.  The  official  declined  to  allow  her  to  in- 
spect the  letters.  But  at  last  she  so  satisfied  him  as 
to  herself  and  her  object  that  he  sent  for  the  clerk,  and 
allowed  him  to  run  over  the  letters  in  question  while 
she  looked  on. 

"Presently  she  said,  "There!  He  wrote  that  ad- 
dress.' It  was  Mrs.  Louis  Wilson,  No.  422  Blank 
street.  The  official  of  course  declined  to  do  more; 
nor  did  she  insist,  being  clear-headed  enough  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  clue.  Then  she  went  back  to  her 
detectives,  and  in  a  week  or  two  knew  all  that  there 
was  to  know.  Here  is  the  report. 

"  Six  months  ago  a  man  took  a  small  house — No. 
422  Blank  street.  He  was  presumed  to  be  married. 
The  man  was  roughly  dressed  and  careless  in  person ; 
had  some  business  occupation  as  a  clerk  in  a  dry-goods 
house ;  known  there  as  a  good  worker  and  punctual, 
but  slovenly  as  to  dress,  and  unpopular  by  reason  of 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  146 

an  abrupt  temper  and  general  lack  of  social  qualities. 
Traced  back  to  a  small  hotel  where  he  had  once  lived. 
Was  believed  to  have  married  one  of  the  maids — a 
rough,  good-natured,  common  woman  older  than  he  j 
was  now  on  a  week's  vacation  at  the  shore.  Name, 
Louis  Wilson.  Home  habits  of  life  unknown.  Might 
drink  at  times,  as  he  occasionally  frequented  a  tavern 
near  by. 

"  After  this  Mrs.  C easily  contrived  to  see  the 

man.  She  is  sure  it  is  her  husband.  Her  own  force 
and  intelligence  are  shown  by  the  fact  that  she  did 
not  speak  to  him,  and  it  is  certain  that  there  is  some 
mystery  back  of  it  all.  Lastly,  she  comes  to  me." 

"  Well,"  said  I, 

"Oh,  I  could,  of  course,  fasten  on  him;  prove 
bigamy ;  punish  him  5  free  her ;  or  pay  off  the  woman 
in  possession.  By  the  way,  he  is  certainly  married ; 
that  I  learned  to-day.  As  against  either  course  there 
is  much  to  be  urged,  and  to  neither  course  does  Mrs. 
C consent." 

"And  what  does  she  want?" 

"  Nothing  yet.  She  insists  that  the  whole  affair  is 
incredible  under  any  assumption  of  sanity  on  the  part 
of  C .  How  does  it  look  to  you  ? " 

"  If  all  she  says  be  true,  the  man  is  not  insane." 

"  No.  I  have  seen  his  employer ;  you  know  him,  I 
fancy.  I  was  able  to  learn  from  him  all  I  wanted  to 
hear  without  alarming  the  man  C .  He  is  un- 
sociable and  even  morose ;  ill-dressed,  even  uncleanly, 
so  that  he  has  been  told  that  he  must  be  neater.  He 
is  said  to  be  clear-headed,  punctual,  and  accurate." 


146  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

"All  that  might  be,  and  yet  he  might  have  left 
her  under  some  delusion  of  which  there  had  been  no 
warning." 

"Well,  it  seems  unlikely,  and,  let  me  add,  Mrs. 

C 's  people  I  find  are  known  to  me.  You  may  rest 

assured  as  to  her  intelligent  truthfulness,  and  even  as 

to  her  accuracy.  I  wired  Mr.  R ,  in  M ,  and 

now  know  all  about  her.  What  do  you  think  ?  and  is 
it  a  case  for  a  doctor  ?  I  myself  am  secure  only  as  to 
this  not  being  an  example  of  mere  vulgar  desertion." 

"  No ;  there  we  are  at  one." 

"Mr.  S ,  his  employer,  has  arranged  to  send 

C to  me  with  a  letter  to-morrow  at  eleven ;  Mr. 

C to  wait  for  an  answer.  Could  you  meet  us  ? " 

"Yes;  I  should  like  to.  Let  us  adjourn  further 
consideration  of  the  matter  until  then." 

The  next  day  I  was  talking  to  Vincent  when  Mr. 
C came  in.  Vincent  said  to  me,  "  Sit  down,  Doc- 
tor, please,  until  I  answer  this  note."  While  he  wrote 

I  studied  C .  He  was  dressed  carelessly;  cuffs 

and  collar  soiled;  hair  unkempt;  nails  uncared  for. 
Nevertheless,  his  facial  lines  were  refined,  if  not  strong, 
and  both  hands  and  feet  were  of  delicate  make.  He 
sat  in  quiet,  apparently  a  stolid,  indifferent  man. 

At  last  Vincent  looked  up  as  he  inclosed  his  reply, 

and  said :  "  I  have  asked  Mr.  S to  name  a  man 

who  can  do  accurately  a  large  amount  of  copying  from 
notes  of  testimony.  It  needs  care  to  decipher  two  or 
three  bad  handwritings.  Once  in  clear  shape,  I  can 
have  it  type-written.  He  says  you  can  do  it." 

"  Yes,  I  can ;  but  I  am  slow.  I  could  take  it  home. 
I  would  be  glad  to  do  it." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  147 

As  C spoke  I  observed  that  it  was  with  slowness 

and  as  if  unsure  of  his  words. 

Vincent  went  on,  "  Will  you  let  me  see  your  writ- 
ing ? " 

"  I  will  bring  some  to-morrow.     I  write  slowly." 

"You  speak  a  little  like  a  foreigner."  And  then 
carelessly,  "  Where  were  you  born  ? " 

C looked  at  him,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  said, 

"I  don't  know." 

"  None  of  us  do,"  returned  Vincent  in  his  gentlest 
manner.  "But  where  were  you  brought  up?  Are 
you  an  American  ? " 

"I  do  not  know;  I  kind  of  don't  know.  I  must 
have  been  sick ;  I  don't  remember  rightly." 

The  language  and  the  tones  were  unrefined.  Evi- 
dent embarrassment  was  in  the  speaker's  face,  and  he 
moved  uneasily. 

"  Try  to  think,"  said  Vincent,  kindly.  «  When  one 
employs  a  man,  it  is  desirable  to  know  a  little  about 
him." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  see  " ;  and  he  was  silent. 

"  Where  does  your  memory  fail  you  ? " 

"About  seven  months  ago." 

"  And  before  that  all  is  a  blank,"  said  I,  abruptly. 

C turned  to  answer  me,  troubled  as  I  could  see, 

but  with  no  sign  of  alarm  or  anger. 

"  Yes ;  I  think  that  is  it.  I  don't  go  back  any  more 
than  if  I  was  born  seven  months  ago.  I  can't  make 
it  out ;  sometimes  I  am  unhappy  about  it." 

"  Could  you  tell  how  you  got  here  ? " 

"  Yes ;  on  the  railroad  from  M ." 

"Gould  you  write  and  read  when  you  came  hither?" 


148  CHABACTERISTICS. 

"  That  is  a  strange  question,  sir.  I  could  speak.  I 
speak  badly.  I  must  have  been  sick.  I  speak  better 
now.  I  could  not  write  my  name  in  the  hotel  book. 
The  clerk  said  that  was  queer,  but  I  told  him  my 
name.  He  wrote  it.  In  a  few  weeks  I  tried  to  write ; 
at  first  I  wrote  from  right  to  left,  but  I  learned  soon. 
I  must  have  had  a  fever." 

As  he  spoke,  he  became  less  disturbed  and  more  in- 
terested. Then  pausing,  he  added,  "  Why  do  you  ask 
me  ?  It  quite  bothers  me." 

Ignoring  his  query,  I  went  on.  "  You  came  hither 

from  M ,  you  say.  Did  you  ever  know  a  Mr.  J. 

C ?  You  quite  resemble  him." 

"  No ;  never  heard  of  such  a  man." 

"  An  Oriental  scholar.  Student  of  Sanskrit,  and  so 
on." 

"  What  '&  Sanskrit  ? "  he  replied.  "  Never  heard  of 
that  either." 

At  this  moment  Vincent  rose,  with  a  glance  at  me, 
and  saying,  "  Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Wilson,  I  will  get 
a  few  pages  of  the  notes.  You  may  copy  them  and 
let  me  see  to-morrow  how  you  get  on.  Then  we  can 
arrange  as  to  terms." 

So  saying  he  passed  us  and  went  into  the  outer 
room ;  was  gone  a  minute  or  two  and  returned,  fol- 
lowed by  Mrs.  C .  Her  dignity  of  carriage  and 

extraordinary  calmness  overwhelmed  me  with  amaze- 
ment. She  looked  at  C ,  flushed,  and,  drawing 

back  a  chair,  as  women  do  when  about  to  sit  down, 
adjusted  her  skirts,  and  took  a  seat. 

I  instantly  turned  to  watch  C .  Not  a  sign  be- 
trayed memory  of  the  woman. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  149 

"Mrs.  C ,"  said  Vincent,  "my  friend  Doctor 

North."  I  bowed.  "Mrs.  C 's  difficulty  I  have 

already  mentioned,"  continued  Vincent.  "She  has  as 
yet  no  news  of  her  husband,  and,  by  the  way,  Mr. 
Wilson  here  is  a  Western  man,  Mrs.  C .  I  vent- 
ured on  the  mere  chance  of  a  clue  to  ask  him  if  he 
ever  heard  of  Mr.  C .  I  think  you  said  no." 

"  Never  heard  of  any  such  man." 

I  saw  a  change  go  over  the  woman's  face  ;  it  was 
almost  too  severe  a  trial.  The  muscles  of  her  chin 
twitched.  She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 

with  evident  effort,  "  You  look  like  Mr.  C " ;  and, 

rising,  "  you  might  be  he.  I  am  his  wife." 

The  clerk  smiled.  "  Well,  I  am  Louis  Wilson,  and 
have  a  wife  of  my  own." 

I  saw  Vincent  touch  his  lips  with  his  finger  as  she 
turned  toward  him.  At  once  her  remarkable  self- 
control  asserted  itself. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said  ;  "  I  must  go.  Pray  send  me 
the  title-deeds,  Mr.  Vincent.  I  really  must  go.  Good 
morning,"  and  went  out. 

"  My  clerk  has  the  notes  ready,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said 
Vincent;  "you  need  not  wait  here — in  the  outer 
room,  please."  And  then  the  lawyer  and  I  were  alone. 
"What  now?"  said  he. 

"  It  is  a  case  of  what  is  called  double  consciousness. 
This  man  abruptly  lost  all  memory  of  his  lif  e  and  its 
events — that  is,  of  people,  of  things,  not  of  words; 
probably  of  all  written  signs.  Most  habits  must  have 
remained,  but  as  to  this  we  do  not  know.  The  intel- 
lect was  not  altered.  He  was  able  rapidly  to  reacquire 
a  new  store  of  guiding,  useful  remembrances,  and  to 


150  CHARACTERISTICS. 

learn  to  write.  In  a  case  I  know  of  there  was  this 
same  tendency  to  write  to  the  left." 

"  He  knew  Hebrew ;  did  it  not  come  from  that  ?  * 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  The  other  case  was  that  of  a  half- 
educated  country  girl." 

"  When,"  returned  Vincent,  "  he  came  to  the  H 

House  here,  he  was  like  a  rough,  ignorant  child,  and 
was  alarmed  when  addressed  by  a  stranger.  The 
chambermaid  said  he  must  have  been  ill.  After  a 
while  she  learned  that  he  had  money.  He  seemed  able 
to  count  it,  but  for  a  long  while  could  not  understand 
what  a  bank  was.  The  landlord,  an  honest  German, 
took  an  interest  in  him,  and  finally  induced  him  to  de- 
posit the  money  in  a  bank.  His  intellectual  apprecia- 
tion of  things  returned  with  great  rapidity,  and  now 
you  see  what  he  is." 

"  Yes ;  it  seems  incredible.  These  cases  are  rarely 
seen  in  their  abnormal  state;  that  is  the  difficulty. 
Of  this  I  am  sure,  the  loss  of  memory  of  people,  of 
animals,  of  places,  is  absolute ;  of  language  the  loss  is 
incomplete;  of  writing,  entire.  But  the  reacquired 
writing  is  identical  as  to  the  forms  of  the  letters  with 
what  has  been  lost ;  you  will  be  able  to  verify  that  with 
ease.  Strangest  of  all  is  the  change  of  character,  of 
tastes,  of  manners.  In  one  instance  a  sad,  morbidly 
religious  person  became  gay,  vivacious,  ignorant  of 
religion,  fond  of  jokes,  and  at  last  wrote  queer  dog- 
gerel verses,  and  for  years  oscillated  from  one  state  to 
the  other ;  ignorant  in  state  A  of  all  that  belonged  to 
or  had  been  learned  in  state  B,  and  vice  versa.  It  is 
a  long  story,  and  in  print.  I  need  not  go  on.  The 
case  ended  by  her  remaining  in  the  abnormal  state. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  151 

She  was  gradually  sobered  as  time  went  on,  and  as  she 
acquired  information  through  others  as  to  her  former 
condition.  She  finally  became  a  pleasant,  useful  per- 
son, and  lived  for  twenty-five  years  a  happy,  active 
life  as  a  teacher." 

"  Then,"  remarked  Vincent,  "like  this  man,  she  was, 
at  different  periods,  two  distinct  people,  with  quite 
opposite  characteristics  ? " 

"Yes." 

"And  irresponsible  in  one  state  for  the  crime  or 
foUy  of  the  other?" 

"Yes;  like  this  man.  Some  people  explain  these 
strange  facts  by  our  having  two  hemispheres  in  the 
brain ;  but  the  power  to  write  and  to  speak  are  the 
function  only  of  the  left  side  of  the  brain,  and  speech 
is  lost  but  in  part,  and  writing  altogether,  or  not  at 
all  in  other  instances.  I  see  no  explanation.  What- 
ever be  the  cause,  it  is  such  as  may  disappear  and  re- 
appear in  a  minute." 

"And  this  may  happen  here  in  this  case?" 

"  Or  may  not ;  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.'' 

"  How  horrible !     And  what  do  you  advise  ? " 

"  If  we  tell  him  the  truth,  and  prove  it,  there  is  the 
woman,  his  present  wife,  against  us.  Of  course  it 
will  be  hard  to  influence  a  man  in  his  mental  state — 
commonplace,  satisfied — careless,  at  least.  With  the 
woman  against  us,  we  shall  have  a  suit  for  bigamy, 
and  to  go  into  court  with  the  defense  of  double  con- 
/  sciousness  would  be  useless." 

"  I  see  it  all.  If  Mrs.  C will  have  the  sense  to 

wait,  time  may  settle  it.  I  see  no  other  resource." 

When  Mrs.  C heard  our  opinion  she  was  in- 

11 


152  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

clined  to  make  a  further  effort,  but  at  last,  on  being 

assured  that  C would  be  well  watched,  concluded 

to  await  the  result  in  her  old  home. 

To  conclude  this  story,  I  may  add  that  just  four 

months  later  C appeared  suddenly  in  her  house 

in  great  perplexity  and  terribly  disturbed.  He  had 
not  a  trace  of  remembrance  of  the  past  eleven  months. 
He  recalled  the  fact  that  he  had  gone  to  the  bank  in 

M ,  and  there  his  recollection  failed.  The  new 

life,  the  novel  employment,  the  locality  he  had  lived 
in,  the  new  wife,  were  for  him  as  though  they  had 
never  been.  His  rough  dress  surprised  him.  He  was 
once  more  the  quiet,  well-bred,  sensitive  scholar. 

He  declared  that  one  day  he  was  walking  in  L  street 
in  this  city,  when,  abruptly  he  was  astounded  and  be- 
wildered by  the  strangeness  and  unfamiliarity  of  the 
surroundings.  He  asked  some  one  where  he  was. 
The  second  wife  and  home  were  as  things  dead  to 
memory.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  must  have  been 
ill.  He  went  into  a  hotel,  got  a  paper,  saw  that  eleven 
months  were  a  blank  to  him,  and,  asking  his  way  to 
the  station,  went  at  once  to  his  former  dwelling-place. 

Mrs.  C adds  that  his  ways,  manners,  tastes 

seem  to  be  as  they  once  were.  At  first  he  was  some- 
what dazed,  but  by  degrees  improved  in  health,  and 
reassumed  his  studies.  In  answer  to  his  uneasy  ques- 
tions as  to  his  presumed  illness  and  long  loss  of  mem- 
ory, she  was  able  to  say  that  vain  efforts  had  been 
made  to  find  him.  At  last  he  showed  a  strong  disin- 
clination to  hear  his  former  mysterious  condition  re- 
ferred to,  not  a  rare  peculiarity  in  persons  who  have 
had  his  disorder.  Now  she  proposes  to  go  to  the  East 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  163 

and  travel  in  Oriental  countries,  a  plan  which  in  every- 
way suits  him. 

Of  the  sum  he  took  from  home  about  two  thousand 
dollars  remained  in  the  bank,  and  as  to  this  we  were 

embarrassed.  He  could  not  draw  it  out  as  J.  C , 

and  he  could  not  as  Louis  Wilson.  It  was  decided  to 
sacrifice  it.  To  this  day  no  one  knows  what  became 
of  the  remainder  of  the  money  he  had  originally  de- 
posited. It  had  been  drawn  upon  during  his  life  here 
in  large  amounts,  and  Vincent  had  reason  to  think 
was  lost  in  foolish  stock  speculations. 

Mrs.  C ,  a  just  and  generous  woman,  settled  on 

the  ex- wife  a  sum  competent  to  support  her.  She  was 
told  that  Wilson  was  disordered  in  mind  and  already 
married,  and  that  she  herself  would  enjoy  her  income 
so  long  as  she  took  no  steps  to  solve  the  mystery,  or  to 
discover  her  lost  husband.  She  agreed  to  this,  and 
the  C s  will  remain  for  years  in  the  East. 

"  It  is  well  done,"  said  I.  "  I  wonder  how  many  of 
the  incomprehensible  disappearances  depend  upon  a 
state  of  mind  similar  to  C— — 's.  The  more  one  con- 
siders it,  the  more  bewildering  does  it  seem.  Are  we 
all  of  us  'two  single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one'! 
However,  some  day  we  will  talk  it  over  again,  and  ask 
me,  too,  about  the  cases  of  insanity  where  a  man  is 
conscious  of  two  personalities  in  his  own  being,  and 
converses  for  both." 

"  I  shall  not  forget.    Are  there  ever  three  ?  " 

"No;  I  believe  not." 


XI. 

UNDAY  was,  both  of  choice  and  of 
necessity,  the  day  when  we  were 
apt  to  make  holiday  together.  The 
matchless  weather  of  early  Novem- 
ber was  also  a  temptation  to  be  out 
of  doors,  and  the  wide  hospitality 
of  the  park  assured  us  of  comparative  solitude.  And 
now  it  was  an  hour  before  set  of  sun,  and  about  us 
the  margin  of  a  great  wood,  with  a  deep  stillness  in 
the  cool  autumn  air,  through  which  the  leaves  fell 
lazily,  drifting  earthward  one  by  one.  Far  away  be- 
low us  many  people  lay  on  the  slopes,  quietly  enjoying 
the  rest  and  the  sunlit  river  gay  with  boats. 

On  the  forest  verge,  and  in  and  out,  St.  Clair 
walked,  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  kicked  the  rustling 
leaves  as  he  went,  pleased  like  a  child  with  the  noise 
and  with  their  colors. 

It  was  rarely  that  Clayborne  could  be  made  to  join 
our  walking  parties.  He  hated  exercise,  affirming  it 
to  be  needless  for  health,  illustrating  his  theory  by  his 
own  example  of  perfect  soundness.  He,  too,  as  he  lay 
and  watched  the  distant  carriages  and  the  quiet  enjoy- 
ment of  the  groups  below  us,  amused  himself  by  stir- 
ring up  the  drifted  leaves  with  his  stick.  At  last  he 
turned  to  Vincent.  "I  sometimes  wish,"  said  he, 


CHAEACTERISTTCS.  155 

"that  men  were  like  books,  so  that  one  could  take 
them  down  from  a  shelf  and  read  them  at  will." 

"And  then  put  them  back  when  you  have  had 
enough,"  returned  Vincent.  "  But  then,  my  books  are 
men,  and  they  do  vastly  entertain  me  on  the  whole, 
and  vary  from  day  to  day,  which  your  tedious  volumes 
do  not." 

"  Oh,  don't  they  ? "  cried  Clayborne. 

"By  George!"  said  St.  Clair.  "This  is  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  ever  agreed  with  you.  Vincent 
thinks  books  are  just  mere  changeless  things.  My 
books,  at  least,  do  alter.  I  have  suspected  them  of 
moving  about  on  the  shelves,  and  of  course  their 
dress,  their  associations,  affect  their  power  over  men. 
Do  not  a  man's  clothes  influence  your,  estimate  of 
him?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  cried  Vincent,  pretending 
not  to  understand. 

"  And,"  added  St.  Clair,  "  would  you  as  lief  read  a 
paper-bound  Leipsic  '  Horace '  as  my  Elzevir,  with  the 
thumb-marks  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  ?  Would  it  be 
the  same  to  you  ? " 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  Vincent.  "  The  book  is  the  book, 
that  is  all.  Nonsense !  The  print  should  be  clear,  and 
the  volume  clean.  I  ask  no  more.  Go  on." 

"Oh,  we  could  fit  all  this  truth  to  the  books  you 
call  men,"  said  St.  Clair.  "North  has  a  little  old 
Huguenot  Bible.  On  its  dainty  binding  are  the  signs 
of  long  and  reverent  use.  It  has  the  psalms  for  those 
who  are  about  to  go  into  battle,  and  for  such  as  are 
condemned  to  the  ax.  It  is  just  about  the  date  of  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Is  n't  it,  North  ? n 


156  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered ;  "  and  when  it  came  to  me  there 
was  in  it  a  rose  faded  gray." 

"  Oh,"  continued  St.  Clair,  "  and  I  know  of  a  little 
volume  of  Shakspere  which  is  faintly  smirched  here 
and  there  with  the  touch  of  finger-tips,  now  dark- 
red.  It  belonged  to  Keats,  and  as  you  all  know 
how  he  died,  you  may  know  what  were  these  red 
stains." 

"  And,"  said  Clayborne,  "  in  the  great  French  library 
there  is  that  rare  book,  the  '  De  Trinitatis  Erroribus ' 
of  Servetus.  Calvin  burned  him  and  his  books,  and 
it  is  thought,  and  I  like  to  believe,  that  the  slight 
marks  of  fire  on  this  copy  are  evidence  that  it  was 
rescued  by  some  disciple,  who  came  at  nightfall  to 
grieve  where  the  smoldering  ashes  lay." 

"  Thanks,"  said  St.  Clair,  simply.  "  That  is  a  thing 
to  make  one  think.  "Would  you  mind  my  using  that 
little  poem  ? " 

"Poem!     Who!     I!     What !"  cried  Clayborne. 

"Yes.  What  a  tragedy!"  And  the  poet  slowly 
moved  aside  into  the  verge  of  the  woodland. 

"I,  too,  have  a  book,"  I  said,  "which  is  to  me 
strangely  interesting.  It  is  the  copy  of  his  '  De  G-en- 
eratione,'  which  William  Harvey  gave  to  one  Francis 
Bernard,  a  London  doctor.  Men  do  not  seem,  in 
those  days,  to  have  inscribed  their  names  in  presenta- 
tion copies.  It  is  a  modern  fashion,  I  suspect.  But 
this  Bernard  is  clearly  aware  of  the  honor  done  him. 
He  writes  on  a  blank  leaf,  'Donum  Eruditissimi  et 
Perspicacissimi  Autoris,  May  1,  1651.' " 

"And  why  did  you  chance  to  say,  Clayborne,  that 


CHARACTERISTICS.  157 

you  wished  men  were  like  books  ?  Why,  just  now,  I 
mean  ? "  said  Vincent. 

"  I  had  a  woman's  curiosity  about  these  people  on 
the  hillside.  I  wanted  to  see  their  table  of  contents. 
They  seemed  to  me,  as  we  walked  among  them,  to  be 
chiefly  Americans — mechanics  I  take  it  mostly,  a  class 
I  never  can  get  near  to — in  talk,  I  mean.  Men  of 
business,  professional  folks,  the  people  of  our  own 
class,  seem  transparent  enough." 

Vincent  smiled  at  me  furtively.  Clayborne  was  a 
bad  judge  of  living  character.  His  intelligence  was, 
indeed,  of  a  rare  order  of  excellence.  His  lack  of 
sympathy  was  complete,  and  sympathy  is  one  of  the 
keys  to  character. 

"The  trouble  lies  with  you,"  I  said.  "No  men  are 
so  approachable  nor  so  often  interesting  as  our  own 
mechanics.  All  the  lower  classes  in  England  are 
struck  shy  at  once  when  a  stranger  of  a  class  above 
them  attempts  to  engage  them  in  easy  talk.  It  is  not 
so  with  our  people.  Their  sense  of  difference  of  social 
position  is  of  other  quality  than  that  of  the  English- 
man. The  ups  and  downs  of  life  are  vast  and  com- 
mon with  us,  and  everywhere  is  growing  a  wholesome 
sense  of  the  fact  that  the  form  of  labor  does  not  de- 
grade— that  at  least  it  need  not." 

"  The  more  the  people  think  that,  the  less  it  will 
degrade,"  said  St.  Clair.  "  But  there  will  always  re- 
main the  influential  effect  of  occupations." 

"Let  us  clear  our  heads,"  said  Clayborne,  "as  to 
what  we  mean  by  degradation." 

"  I  mean,"  said  Vincent,  "  or  you  mean,  I  fancy,  that 


158  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

there  are  occupations  which  cut  men  off  from  social 
relations  with  refined  people,  or  shall  we  say  with  the 
class  in  which  are  found  the  best  manners  ?  No  need 
to  discuss  the  value  of  these." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  St.  Clair,  "  accept  that ;  and  now 
if  you  were  to  name  the  occupations  which  socially 
disqualify  to-day,  you  would  find  them  fewer  than 
they  were  even  fifty  years  ago." 

"  True,  quite  true,"  said  Clayborne.  "  Let  us  each 
make  a  personal  list  of  the  occupations  which  we 
think  ought  to  disqualify  for  the  best  social  life. 
Mine  would  amaze  you.  I  have  not  the  courage  to 
state  it.  But  go  on,  my  little  saint.  You  are  doing 
it  well  I  never  knew  you  half  so  definite  before." 

"  Confound  his  impudence !  "  cried  the  poet,  pleased 
nevertheless  to  be  praised.  "  There  was  a  time  when 
to  be  a  business  man  in  some  Southern  cities  was  a 
social  degradation.  It  is  not  so  now.  Compare  the 
position  of  a  teacher  to  what  it  once  was.  See  how 
the  poorer  students  of  New  England  colleges  may 
work  in  summer  as  waiters  at  hotels  and  go  back  to 
their  studies  socially  uninjured.  I  must  have  told  you 
before  of  the  amazement  of  an  Oxford  Fellow  when  a 
waiter  in  the  White  Mountains,  overhearing  me  speak 
at  supper  of  my  difficulty  with  a  passage  in  an  old 
Italian  life  of  Galileo,  offered  to  translate  it." 

"  When  a  man's  occupation,  if  it  does  not  make  him 
physically  unpleasant,  ceases  to  put  social  barriers  in 
his  way,  you  think  that  we  shall  have  attained  the 
right  thing.  Is  that  it  ? "  said  Vincent. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"But  now  it  does  make  him  socially  impossible, 


CHARACTERISTICS.  159 

sometimes.  How  can  the  manners  of  a  dry-goods  re- 
tailing clerk  ever  be — " 

"As  yours,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Well,  if  you  like,  yes."  And  then,  gaily,  "  But  it 
would  have  been  better  manners  to  have  left  my  man- 
ners out  of  the  question." 

"Oh,  we  need  a  standard,"  I  said.  "The  clerk's 
manners  do  now  disqualify.  They  need  not  continue 
to  do  so." 

"  I  doubt  it,"  said  Vincent.  "And  yet  in  some  New 
England  towns  the  standard  of  manners  and  of  culti- 
vation is  much  nearer  alike  in  all  occupations  than  in 
our  cities,  and  is  not  bad  by  any  means.  However,  it 
is  a  long  question  to  discuss  here." 

"I  don't  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  St.  Clair.  "I 
rather  think  that  mere  manners  are  essentially  and  in- 
variably modified  by  what  a  man's  work  is.  It  ought 
not  to  be  so,  but  it  is.  I  hold  a  lease  of  my  studio 
from  an  undertaker.  Now  and  then  he  comes  in  to 
see  me  as  to  rent,  or  repairs,  or  what  not.  I  perfectly 
loathe  that  man.  His  manners  are  subdued,  like  the 
dyer's  hands,  to  what  he  deals  in ;  he  talks  under  his 
breath.  He  is  always  composing  himself  into  attitudes 
of  constrained  sobriety.  He  pays  you  the  same  lugu- 
brious attention  he  gives  to  a  corpse.  When  he  comes 
into  a  room  it  is  always  head  first,  and  he  seems  to 
me  to  crawl  around  the  half -opened  door  with  cautious 
quietness.  My  workman  calls  him  'the  measuring- 
worm.'  " 

"  A  cheerful  person,"  said  Vincent.  "  But  St.  Clair 
has  proved  his  point." 

"No;    only    illustrated    his    thesis,"    I    returned. 


160  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  Your  undertaker  reminds  me  of  a  jest  which  ought 
to  be  preserved.  St.  Claims  landlord — the  '  ghoul,'  we 
used  to  call  him — once  consulted  a  friend  of  mine. 
The  doctor  said,  <  You  seem  to  have  something  on  your 
mind,  Mr.  Maw.' 

"  'I  have,  sir.  Whenever  I  feel  ill, — and  I  am  get- 
ting on  in  years, — I  am  saddened  by  the  reflection 
that  possibly  my  own  funeral  obsequies  will  be  con- 
ducted with  less  orderly  decorum  than  if  I  were  here 
to  superintend  them.' " 

"  That  is  immense ! "  cried  St.  Clair.  "  I  beg  pardon ; 
go  on." 

"  The  doctor  replied, '  Well,  Mr.  Maw,  why  not  have 
a  rehearsal  ? ' " 

"That  seems  reasonable,"  said  Clayborne,  gravely. 
"  But  where  on  earth  is  the  fun  ? " 

This  nearly  crippled  the  party  for  further  talk,  but 
after  some  moments  Vincent  said,  "  Suppose  we  drop 
the  undertaker,  and — " 

"  Horrible  word  in  its  literalness,"  broke  in  St.  Clair. 

"  Yes ;  bury  him,"  I  said.     "  Go  on,  Vincent." 

"  I  was  only  about  to  take  up  the  broken  threads  of 
our  chat.  There  is  the  clerical  manner,  with  its  habit 
of  exhortative  inflections,  very  droll  when  astray  in 
the  commonplaces  of  every-day  life.  And  the  doctor 
manner  —  " 

"  Mine,  for  example  t " 

"Well,  sometimes." 

" Thanks j  I  shall  remember  that" 

"  The  question,"  Vincent  went  on,  "  is  whether  any 
business  must  always  of  need  so  affect  a  man's  man- 
ners and  ways  as  to  cut  him  off  from  the  social  life  of 


CHARACTERISTICS.  161 

men  so  favored  by  fortune,  inherited  qualities,  and 
education  as  to  demand  a  certain  standard.  Do  I  put 
it  fairly?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clayborne. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  must  admit,  I  think,  that  all 
work  has  its  influence  on  character,  and  on  what 
makes  for  or  against  social  charm.  Are  not  these  in- 
fluences in  some  businesses  too  potent  for  evil  to  ad- 
mit of  their  being  overcome  ?  It  would  be  a  vast  gain 
to  feel  that  merely  because  you  do  this  or  that  you  are 
not  set  aside  as  of  a  class  to  which  certain  avenues  are 
closed.  That  alone  injures,  as  St.  Clair  said,  and  is 
competent  to  affect  both  character  and  manners.  I 
was  told  once  in  a  great  city  of  Europe  that  I  would 
find  it  pleasant  to  be  received  in  a  certain  class  of  so- 
ciety, but  that  it  would  be  impossible  while  I  con- 
tinued to  call  myself  doctor  on  my  card.  '  Of  course,' 
said  the  friend  who  desired  for  me  this  privilege,  '  my 
doctor  does  not  dine  with  me.7  And  the  man  she 
named  was  a  physician  of  European  celebrity.  He 
was  not  excluded  because  he  was  ill-bred,  but  because 
it  was  silently  accepted  as  a  fact  that  he  could  not  be 
well-bred.  I  affirm  that  this  alone  is  injurious  in  a 
measure,  and  leads  to  his  being  just  what  they  des- 
potically affirm  him  to  be." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clayborne ;  "  however  much  a  man  may 
struggle  against  the  social  peculiarities  of  his  class,  in 
the  end  he  will  be  apt  to  suffer  defeat.  Now  as  to  the 
doctors." 

"  As  to  them,"  I  urged,  "  let  me  say  a  word.  Every 
occupation  has  its  influence  on  character,  be  that  what 
it  may.  My  own  profession  is  full  of  temptations  to 


162  CHARACTERISTICS. 

yield  to  little  meannesses.  It  is  a  constant  trial  of 
temper.  It  offers  ample  chance  to  win  in  retail  ways 
by  disparagement  of  others,  and  by  flattery  and  ap- 
pearance of  interest  where  little  is  felt.  The  small 
man — what  I  may  call  the  retail  nature — gives  way 
to  these  temptations ;  the  nobler  nature  strengthens 
in  resisting  them.  A  doctor's  life-work  is  the  best 
education  for  the  best  characters.  It  is  of  the  worst 
for  the  small  of  soul." 

"  Let  us  return  to  St.  Glair's  dictum,"  said  Vincent. 
"  I  think  it  was  that  no  general  reverence  for  his  mode 
of  work,  and  no  example,  and  no  desire  on  his  part, 
could  ever  make  an  undertaker  socially  endurable." 

"  Oh,  sentiment  comes  in  there,"  said  I,  "  and  that  is 
inexorable.  But  to-day  we  have  false  lines  for  social 
boundaries.  There  is  no  sentiment  in  the  way  as  to 
the  mechanic.  Make  it  only  a  question  of  manners, 
and  leave  that  to  him,  but  let  us  stand  up  for  the 
American  idea.  It  is  the  business  of  every  man  to  see 
that  his  work  in  lif  e  does  not  put  into  his  character 
anything  which  lessens  his  powers  to  please  and  be 
pleased  in  right  ways." 

"And  that  was  what  your  screed  about  doctors 
meant,"  said  Vincent.  "  You  are  an  abominably  sensi- 
tive breed.  You  abuse  yourselves,  but  allow  no  one 
else  to  do  so." 

"Yes;  I  hardly  know  why,  except  that  gilds  are 
generally  sensitive,  and  ours  is  a  world- wide  gild,  and 
the  only  one.  The  world  over  we  keep  touch  of  one 
another,  claim  constantly  of  one  another  unrequited 
service,  and  abide  by  a  creed  of  morals  old  when 
Christ  was  born." 


- 


CHARACTERISTICS.  163 

"When  you  got  off  on  to  the  doctors,"  said  St. 
Clair,  "I  was  about  to  ask  you  not  to  forget  your 
promise  to  tell  us  about  your  friend  the  character 
doctor." 

"  That  is  a  new  trade,"  said  Vincent. 

"  I  will  not  forget  it,"  I  returned. 

"  Good !  "  said  Clayborne.  "  But  all  this  fuss  about 
character  is  rather  amusing.  I  don't  think  I  ever  took 
much  pains  with  mine." 

"  Nor  I,"  cried  St.  Clair. 

"  Nonsense ! n  I  replied.  "  If  not,  then  you  had  bet- 
ter begin." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  Russian  account  of  the 
moral  tontine  ? "  said  Clayborne.  "  I  translated  it  for 
amusement  when  I  was  learning  Russian.  I.  can  read 
it  to  you  some  time,  if  you  like.  It  shows  how  a  fel- 
low may  acquire  too  much  character." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  that.  Let  '&  have  it  next 
Sunday  night  at  Vincent's.  And  now,  suppose  we  walk 
home  along  the  drive ;  I  like  to  see  the  people." 

"  Oh,  anywhere,"  grumbled  Clayborne,  "  if  you  will 
leave  alone  my  poor  little  character,  as  the  servant- 
girls  say ;  it  is  all  I  have.  It  satisfies  me,  and  I  have 
no  respect  for  you  people  who  have  to  send  your  char- 
acters to  the  wash  every  week." 

"Mine  needs  it,"  said  Vincent,  "and — well,  there 
really  are  folks  who  like  paper  collars." 

"  I  hardly  understand  your  very  indistinct  allusion," 
said  Clayborne;  "I  have  worn  paper  collars  myself 
on  a  journey.  I  consider  their  inventor  a  benefactor 
to — to  so  much  of  the  race  as  wears  collars." 

"And  I,"  said  St.  Clair,  "would  like  to  introduce 


164  CHARACTERISTICS. 

the  custom  of  erecting  statues  to  what  I  call  the 
negative  benefactors  of  mankind,  the  people  who 
invent  tomato-cans,  telegraph-poles,  or  paper  collars. 
Oh,  I  could  write  the  inscriptions  too.  This  monu- 
ment is  erected  by  an  injured  public  to  preserve  for 
eternal  detestation  the  memory  of  Blank,  Esq.,  who 
invented  a  new  means  of  desecrating  the  beautiful 
in  nature." 

"  We  will  all  subscribe,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  may  laugh,  but,  think  of  this.  To 
be  alone  with  a  friend  in  the  forests  of  Maine.  About 
you  the  moss-grown  trunks  of  a  windfall's  ravage  a 
century  old.  At  last,  you  say,  here  no  foot  of  man 
has  been.  Tour  friend  points  to  a  soiled  paper  collar 
at  your  feet.  There  are  some  crimes  I  could  more 
easily  condone  than  certain  vulgarities,  and  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  you  get  used  to  these  horrors." 

"  Pshaw !  "  exclaimed  Clayborne.  "  You  really  don't 
mean  what  you  were  saying.  Would  a  bit  of  news- 
paper have  offended  your  sensibilities  ? " 

"  Yes  j  it  would.  The  American  newspaper  editor 
would  have  one  of  my  tallest  negative  statues." 

"  That  is  rather  too  bad,"  exclaimed  Clayborne,  fall- 
ing behind  with  the  poet  while  Vincent  and  I  went 
down  the  hill  together. 

"  Clayborne's  incapacity  to  see  fun  in  any  shape  is 
exasperating,"  said  I.  "  I  consider  it  a  real  annoyance 
at  times." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  mean  if  we  are  alone  together.  It  limits 
talk,  and  to  have  to  keep  too  close  watch  on  what  you 
say  is  fatal  to  reasonable  human  intercourse.  Imagine 


CHARACTERISTICS.  165 

yourself,  when  with  a  charming  young  woman,  being 
asked  every  five  minutes  to  explain  your  intentions. 
Clayborne  is  every  whit  as  bad  as  that." 

"  Who  is  the  man  yonder  ? "  said  Vincent. 

We  were  now  near  the  drive,  and  about  us  were  the 
serious  but  not  discontented  faces  of  well-clad  peo- 
ple, chiefly  Americans,  and  not  a  few  Germans.  The 
drive  was  in  a  remote  portion  of  the  park,  and  was 
scarcely  watched  by  the  guards,  so  that  on  it  a  few 
men  were  speeding  their  fast  horses,  amidst  critical 
comments  on  the  trotters  by  the  groups  on  the  grassy 
slope.  Presently  came  at  lawless  speed  a  perfect  pair 
of  Morgans.  Behind  them,  in  a  light  wagon,  sat  a 
stout,  red-faced  man,  smoking  as  if  it  were  a  duty  to 
make  his  fairy-like  equipage  seem  a  steam-engine.  He 
looked  straight  ahead  at  the  road. 

"Who?"  I  said  in  answer.  "That  is  Mr.  O . 

That  pair  is  worth — well,  the  value  of  your  house. 
The  man  has  this  one  pleasure  in  life.  He  runs 
horses,  but  never  bets.  He  says  that  ain't  business. 
He  has  accumulated  a  fabulous  fortune  from  a  patent 
he  took  for  a  bad  debt.  I  happen  to  know  him  pretty 
well.  He  rises  at  six,  breakfasts  alone,  reads  swiftly 
two  or  more  papers,  is  at  work  by  eight  o'clock,  dines 
standing  at  a  restaurant  counter  at  noon,  leaves  work 
at  four,  drives  until  seven,  eats  supper,  plays  a  little 
euchre  twice  a  week  at  his  club,  or  else  reads  a  news- 
paper until  ten,  and  goes  to  bed.  Also,  he  is  a  bache- 
lor and  is  clean  shaven." 

"Well,  that  is  the  outside — the  natural  history. 
What  of  the  physiology?" 

"He  has  a  small  house,  lives  plainly,  has  his  one 


166  CHARACTERISTICS. 

extravagance, — fast  horses, — and  never  gives  away  a 
dollar." 

"  The  man  has  then  neither  vices  nor  virtues." 

"  Yes,  Vincent,"  I  returned ;  "  he  has  the  courage  of 
his  convictions,  like  other  hardened  thieves." 

"  And  does  not  the  sentence  of  a  kindlier  world  on 
such  as  he  touch  him  at  times  ? " 

"  Never,  I  fear.  I  once  went  to  put  before  him  the 
needs  of  a  great  charity.  He  heard  me  patiently,  and 
then  said :  '  I  object  to  doing  that  which  I  am  taxed 
for,  and,  besides,  I  am  unable  to  give  away  money.  I 
cannot  do  it.  Other  people  can.  I  can't  do  it.' " 

"  And  that  was  all  ? " 

"Yes;  almost  all.  He  asked  me  to  smoke,  say- 
ing the  cigars  cost  half  a  dollar  apiece.  I  laughed, 
and  said,  '  How  can  you  be  willing  to  give  me  a  half- 
dollar?"' 

" '  That  's  true,'  said  he ;  '  but  it  is  n't  money. 
There  's  something  darned  queer  about  money.  I  '11 
leave  your  hospital  something  in  my  will,  but  I  won't 
give  you  a  cent.' " 

"  The  being  you  describe  seems  to  me  incredible." 

"  Oh,  here  are  the  others."  And  we  went  down  to 
the  river,  and  walked  homeward. 

"  And  there  is  another  horror,"  said  St.  Clair,  point- 
ing to  the  hideous  collection  of  white  marble  tomb- 
stones on  the  further  side.  We  could  but  agree. 

"  Yet,"  said  Vincent,  "  even  a  modern  graveyard  can 
be  made  a  fitting  thing.  Near  a  Western  town  a  man 
gave  a  fine  old  wood  as  a  cemetery,  with  the  condi- 
tion that  small  spaces  might  be  cleared ;  that  no  grave- 
stones should  be  other  than  gray ;  that  none  should  rise 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  167 

over  three  or  four  inches  from  the  earth,  and  that  the 
boundary-lines  of  ownerships  should  be  marked  only 
in  the  same  way.  Flowers  and  vines  might  be  planted, 
but  no  tall  monuments  or  iron  fences  were  allowed. 
I  am  told  that  it  was  most  solemn  and  beautiful." 

"And/'  said  Clayborne,  "yonder  mass  of  the  dead 
must  drain  into  the  river  from  which  men  drink." 

"Mother  Earth  is  a  great  purifier,"  I  remarked; 
"but  the  idea  is  certainly  unpleasant.  My  friend 

W says  it  accounts  for  the  conservatism  of  this 

great  city." 

"  How  ? "  said  Clayborne. 

"Oh,  don't  ten  him,"  cried  St.  Clair,  laughing. 
"Don't.  It  is  a  riddle." 

"  I  hate  riddles,"  said  Clayborne. 
/*But  there  is  a  tremendous  wisdom  in  this  one," 
,  said  Vincent.     "It  is  a  question  of  hygiene — how  to 
separate  purity  from  impurity." 

Clayborne  walked  along  in  silence,  while  we  chatted 
gaily.  He  was  apt  to  keep  an  idea  in  his  mind  long 
after  the  talk  had  drifted  away  from  it,  so  that  half 
an  hour  later  we  were  not  surprised  to  hear  him  say : 
"  I  think  I  see  it  now.  How  curious !  But  it  is  an 
argument  as  well  as  a  jest." 


12 


xn. 


our  Sunday  evening  talks 
chanced  to  be  at  Vincent's  I  was 
always  well  pleased.  The  addition 
of  Mrs.  Vincent  seemed  to  bring  out 
all  the  peculiar  qualities  of  each  of 
us,  as  a  ripe  peach  before  your  best 
Burgundy  enlarges  your  knowledge 
as  to  how  one  pleasant  thing  may  mysteriously  in- 
crease the  power  of  another  to  give  delight.  If  you 
were  happy  enough  to  be  liked  by  this  woman,  you 
were  made  to  feel  when  with  her  how  gladsome  a  thing 
life  may  be.  And  this,  too,  in  a  sober  way,  for  there 
was  in  her  fashions  a  pretty  tranquillity,  and  only 
rarely  louder  mirth.  When  she  smiled,  it  was,  as  St. 
Clair  quoted, 

As  when  an  infant  smiles, 
Not  at  but  with  yon. 

For  her  smiles  were  never  employed  for  unspoken 
cynical  comment,  nor  to  hint  the  thing  she  dare  not 
say. 

I  remember  hearing  her  husband  remark  that  she 
was  more  apt  to  laugh  when  alone,  and  her  answer 
that  her  smile  was  for  all,  but  that  her  laughter  was 
private  property. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  169 

TMs  puzzled  Clayborne,  who  insisted  that  Saadi  had 
said,  "  The  wise  smile,  and  the  fool  laughs." 

Mrs.  Vincent  retorted,  "  Then  I  am  wise  only  when 
in  company,  and  a  fool  when  alone,  which  is  a  proof 
of  wisdom." 

However,  St.  Clair,  liking  to  tease  Clayborne,  said 
that  he  knew  Saadi  well,  and  that  the  quotation  was 
an  invention.  Upon  which  Mrs.  Vincent  insisted  that 
for  a  man  to  quote  himself  was  the  same  as  quoting 
some  one  else,  because  men  were  never  the  same  from 
year  to  year.  Clayborne,  confused  by  her  nonsense, 
as  usual  retreated  into  himself  to  examine  the  proposi- 
tion seriously,  while  she  and  St.  Clair  exchanged  un- 
spoken signals  of  childlike  delight. 

She  was  sure,  however  she  teased  him,  to  send  the 
scholar  away  in  good  humor,  and  I  confess  that  for 
me  she  had  the  effect  of  a  glass  or  two  of  champagne, 
and  kept  me  wondering  at  my  own  cleverness. 

She  had,  like  many  nice  women,  a  taste  for  the  mise 
en  scene;  but  this  was  instinctive,  and  probably  un- 
suspected by  herself.  For  the  rest,  she  understood 
her  husband,  and  was  his  best  friend  and  lover.  I  do 
not  think  she  liked  women  as  well  as  men,  but  it 
pleases  me  that  she  never  said  so.  Her  housekeeping 
was  mysteriously  perfect.  She  had  one  accomplish- 
ment, a  noble  voice  in  speech  and  song;  and  one 
grief,  the  absence  of  children.  I  fancied  myself  her 
best  friend,  but  I  was  never  her  physician,  for  she 
said,  "I  could  not  have  my  friend  for  my  doctor" — 
a  not  very  rare  feeling  among  women. 

When  I  came  in  she  was  seated  alone,  reading,  and, 
the  evening  being  warm,  was  clad  in  white,  with  deli- 


170  CHARACTERISTICS. 

cacies  of  lace  here  and  there.  She  wore,  as  usual,  no 
ornament,  but  behind  her,  on  the  table,  so  that  the 
strength  of  her  head  was  set  against  them,  were  several 
bowls  of  roses ;  and  at  her  feet,  on  a  low  stool,  stood 
a  large,  flat  Moorish  vessel,  also  full  of  flowers,  on 
which  she  was  gazing  with  distinct  pleasure,  her  book 
lying  open  on  her  lap. 

"  What  1    Alone  ? "  I  said. 

"  Yes ;  we  have  had  a  discussion  on  folly  and  wis- 
dom. Mr.  St.  Clair  said  a  happy  fool  was  better  off 
than  an  unhappy  wise  man.  Mr.  Clayborne  insisted 
with  solemnity  that  a  really  wise  man  could  not  be  as 
unhappy  as  a  fool,  other  circumstances  being  equal. 
Then  I  quoted,  '  There  's  no  comfort  in  wisdom,  and 
no  satisfaction  in  folly ;  for  all  that  the  former  can  do 
is,  in  some  passage  or  other  of  matchless  eloquence,  to 
call  the  latter  by  her  right  name,  after  which  she  will 
dwell  as  contentedly  your  mistress  as  before.'  I  could 
not  tell  whence  it  came,  and  nothing  would  satisfy 
him  but  to  take  Fred  down  to  the  library  to  look  for 
it,  and  the  poet  to  help  them.  Sit  down ;  they  will 
not  be  long.  You  did  not  come  to  dinner,  after  all, 
and  Miss  L was  so  charming." 

"Ah,  my  dear  lady,  how  many  of  these  charming 
women  have  you  bidden  me  to  see  ?  I  come,  and  talk, 
And  look  at  them,  and  could  classify  them." 

"You  must  not.  This  one  was  really  all  that  I 
pay." 

"  But  you  have  said  nothing.    I  wait." 

"  Well,  she  is  not  very  pretty.  She  never  says  what 
you  expect  her  to  say,  and  seems  always  about  to  say 
or  do  something  that  might  seem — well,  a  little  pro- 


CHARACTERISTICS,  171 

nounced.  Yet  she  never  does  really  do  or  say  any- 
thing  that  the  best  bred  might  not  say  or  do.  She 
has  'eyes  that  do  not  know  their  own  solemnities' — 
eyes  of  heaven  and  a  mouth  of  this  earth." 

"  Fair  food  for  saint  or  sinner,"  I  said.  "  But  really, 
I  could  not  dine  with  you,  and  I  should  like  to  see  this 
woman.  When  shall  it  be  ? " 

"  People  who  decline  my  dinners  never,  never  make 
up  their  loss  on  this  earth." 

"  I  will  never  dine  here  again,"  I  cried,  laughing. 
"  What  are  you — what  were  you  reading?" 

"  St.  Glair's  new  book ;  he  brought  it  to  me  yester- 
day. Have  you  seen  it?" 

"  Yes ;  but  only  the  outside.    What  is  it  ?  " 

"A  dramatic  poem  called  'A  Life.'  A  man  sees  a 
woman  in  her  youth.  They  are  in  love,  are  separated 
by  the  inevitable,  meet  once  again  in  middle  life  for  a 
day,  and  once  more  when  both  are  old.  The  interest 
lies  in  what  they  say  of  life  and  its  intervening  ex- 
periences. I  am  puzzled  by  the  large  knowledge  he 
displays  of  a  world  he  has  never  seen  save  in  mere 


"  Indeed,  but  does  not  that  often  strike  you  in  the 
work  of  genius?  A  friend  of  mine  told  me  Lewes 
once  said  to  him  that  George  Eliot  never,  to  his  or 
her  knowledge,  had  the  experience  of  physicians  which 
enabled  her  to  put  on  paper  Lydgate,  the  only  perfect 
characterization  of  a  physician  in  fiction.  Indeed,  she 
had  said  as  much  to  a  man  well  known  on  the  turf  as 
regards  the  low  turfmen  in  the  same  book." 

"  And  can  you  explain  it  ? " 

"  My  friend  said  in  reply,  that  although  Mr.  Lewes, 


172  CHAKACTEEISTICS. 

for  example,  might  know  little  of  serpent-worship, 
that  were  he  able  to  recall  all  he  had  ever  heard  or 
read  of  it,  he  could  write  on  it  a  book  of  great  learn- 
ing. He  thought  that  we  must  presuppose  in  genius 
the  capacity  to  reassemble  by  degrees  a  host  of  minutiae 
for  use  at  need. 

"  We  all  possess  more  or  less  of  this.  "We  set  an 
idea  before  us,  and  by  and  by  we  are  amazed  to  find 
how  many  ghosts  of  things  apparently  forgotten  are 
summoned  by  this  steady  call  upon  associative  mem- 
ory. It  is  as  when  you  drop  into  a  solution  of  num- 
berless salts  a  crystal  of  one  of  them.  The  formed 
solid  begins  at  once  to  gather  for  its  increase  all  the 
atoms  of  its  kind." 

She  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Well?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  thinking  over  your  illustration  to 
see  if  it  helped  me  to  understand  any  better.  Perhaps 
it  does.  Illustrations  in  argument  often  serve  only  to 
puzzle  me.  You  know  P ? " 

"Yes." 

"  His  talk  is  a  constant  rosary  of  illustrations,  or  of 
illustrative  comparisons,  which  merely  bewilder.  Be- 
fore you  have  mastered  one  of  them  (and  they  are  al- 
ways clever),  he  is  presenting  you  with  another.  But 
about  genius  in  characterization,  there  must  be  also 
some  power  to  do  far  more  than  memorize.  There 
must  be  power  to  reject  and  modify  assembled  mem- 
ories, so  as  at  last  to  create  that  natural  oneness  of  the 
being  described  which  ends  by  making  a  living  thing, 
not  a  mere  photograph." 

"  Yes,  there  are  plenty  of  bright  books  nowadays  in 
which  a  man  represents  people  he  knows ;  but  that  is 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  173 

bad  art.  Usually  it  begins  and  ends  with  one  book, 
which  excites  false  hopes  of  a  brilliant  career  in  fic- 
tion. Abidingly  true  power  to  characterize  in  fiction 
is  automatic." 

"  Oh,  here  they  come.  And  did  you  find  the  quota- 
tion?" 

"  No ;  we  think  you  invented  it,"  said  Vincent. 

"Not  I,  indeed." 

"And  are  we  to  have  the  two  manuscripts  to-night? 
I  vote  for  the  Russian  story  first.  Did  you  bring  it, 
Mr.  Clayborne  ?  The  title  excited  my  curiosity — '  The 
Moral  Tontine.' " 

"  I  brought  it,  but  I  have  no  power  to  translate  so 
as  really  to  render  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  I — well, 
really,  I  would  rather  you  let  me  off." 

"  Oh,  but  you  promised.    What  was  it  about  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  St.  Glair;  "you  are  in  the  toils.  We 
insist  on  hearing." 

"  It  is  quite  too  absurd,"  said  Clayborne. 

"  Then  we  shall  see  you  in  a  new  character,"  cried 
St.  Clair. 

"  You  shall  have  no  tea,"  laughed  Mrs.  Vincent ;  "  not 
a  drop." 

"  That  decides  it,"  cried  Clayborne.  "  Intelligent  law 
proportions  the  punishment  to  the  crime.  I  shall  spoil 
the  story,  but  no  matter,  I  can't  lose  my  cup,  my  three 
cups,  of  tea." 

When  we  were  quietly  seated  and  ready,  he  said : 
"  This  is 

"THE  MORAL  TONTINE. 

"THE  mysterious  sides  of  Russian  life  are  little 
known  to  the  West.  Nowhere  else  do  certain  forms 


174  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

of  mysticism  secure  so  many  serious  converts.  Some 
of  these  peculiar  beliefs  have  been  historically  long- 
lived;  others  come  and  vanish.  The  singular  story 
I  am  about  to  relate  concerns  one  of  these  strange  so- 
cieties. It  is  taken,  as  I  give  it,  from  a  rare  book  by 
Leresky,  a  Pole  of  great  learning,  who  has  investigated 
these  curious  associations,  and  whose  book  was  sup- 
pressed,  and  is  now  difficult  to  obtain.  He  was  en- 
abled  to  see  the  proceedings  of  the  circle  or  society 
which  concerns  my  tale,  and  from  them  copied  this 
illustration  of  the  views  held  by  the  members. 

"  He  abbreviated  it  in  the  telling,  and  it  no  doubt 
loses  something  by  his  abrupt  way  of  relating  what 
might  with  more  art  have  been  made  interesting." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Vincent.  "  Did  the  Polish  his- 
torian believe  in  the  story  ? n 

"  Yes ;  he  was  himself  a  mystic.  He  gives  evidence 
as  to  its  occurrence,  but  makes  no  effort  to  explain  it." 

"  And  do  you  yourself  credit  it  ?  n 

"  I !  "  said  Clayborne.  "  Let  me  first  read  it.  We 
can  discuss  it  afterward." 

"And  I,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  " can  wait  no  longer." 

In  the  province  of  Vasilyskoosky  were  the  head- 
quarters  of  the  secret  society  of  the  Kassilynza.  This 
group  of  people  traced  their  origin  far  back  into  the 
night  of  Russian  barbaric  time.  They  believed  that 
lingual  expression  has  interfered  with  the  more  natural 
and  closer  means  of  mental  intercommunication,  by 
which  soul  may  come  into  contact  with  soul.  For  the 
purpose  of  recovering  the  lost  powers  of  man,  these 
mystics  were  accustomed  to  take  vows  of  silence,  and 


CHARACTERISTICS.  175 

to  live  together  in  pairs,  abhorring  speech,  writing, 
and  even  signs.  They  believed  also  that  for  devoted 
natures  it  was  possible  to  exchange  for  a  time,  or 
permanently,  mental  or  moral  qualities.  This  was 
brought  about  by  an  effort  on  the  part  of  one  man  to 
eject  from  his  mind  a  quality  like  courage,  while  the 
other  man  became  passive  and  simply  receptive.  Thus 
a  surplus  of  virtue  or  vice  was  gotten  rid  of,  the  ob- 
ject being  the  general  good  of  man. 

The  center  of  this  strange  creed  was  the  capital  of 
the  department,  Notsob,  and  here  they  continued  to 
meet,  and  to  elude  the  police,  who  considered  their 
views  to  be  dangerous  to  the  public  good. 

"  Of  course  you  will  understand  that  all  this  I  con- 
sider nonsense.  It  is  much  more  in  North's  line  than 
mine." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I.     "  Go  on." 

"  It  may  interest  you,  North,  to  know  that  the  same 
process  by  which  a  man  got  rid  of  an  excess  of  temper 
applied  also  to  disease.  The  one  man  willed  to  lose 
his  ill  temper ;  another  accepted  it  by  mental  effort. 
After  some  days,  or  at  times  abruptly,  the  former 
man's  temper  returned  to  him  ameliorated  by  having 
dwelt  in  union  with  the  nobler  qualities  of  a  man 
trained  to  self-restraint.  And  so  also  of  disease ;  the 
same  process  being  repeated  over  and  over,  as  between 
the  ill  man  and  many  well  ones,  his  disorder  was  en- 
feebled by  distribution  until  no  one  possessed  enough 
of  it  to  do  harm." 

Dr.  Skoblowitsky,  the  second  regent  of  the  society, 
discovered  that  it  was  possible  to  influence  disease  at 


176  CHABACTEEISTICS. 

a  distance,  so  that  a  man  in  Warsaw  might  be  recep- 
tive at  a  set  hour  for  one  in  Irkutsk,  and,  also,  what 
was  stranger,  that  the  difference  in  time  made  by  the 
longitude  of  two  places  disappeared  as  a  hindrance 
before  the  potency  of  the  double  exercise  of  two  wills. 
But  all  of  this  has  little  to  do  with  the  incidents  of  my 
story,  which  Dr.  Skoblowitsky  describes  in  his  chapter 
of  proofs  of  the  power  of  the  double  will. 

It  is  related,  in  connection  with  some  of  the  state- 
ments as  to  certain  of  the  later  discoveries  made  by 
members  of  the  "  Council  of  Minds,"  just  before  the 
police  finally  broke  up  the  association  in  1783,  that  at 
this  time  Dolinkovitch,  the  chief  councilor,  announced 
his  belief  that  as  the  qualities  of  mind  and  morals 
involved  distinctive  entities,  grouped  for  use  in  the 
republic  known  as  man,  these  must  be  scattered  by 
death.  Some  means,  he  conceived,  might  be  discov- 
ered of  utilizing  and  securing  for  the  living  man  such 
of  these  faculties  as,  dislocated  from  the  rest,  and  set 
at  valueless  freedom  in  spiritual  ether,  would  otherwise 
cease  for  ages  to  be  means  of  good. 

It  was  found  at  last  that  by  proper  exertion  of  will 
power  a  man  about  to  die  could  convey  to  one  alive 
the  dominant  qualities  which  he  himself  possessed, 
but  that  those  of  which  he  had  only  a  minor  share 
could  not  thus  be  transferred.  A  prearranged  accept- 
ive willingness  on  the  part  of  the  recipient  was  alone 
needful  for  his  share  of  the  transaction. 

Several  curious  illustrations  are  given  of  the  work- 
ings of  this  method.  Thus,  the  Russian  poet  Vasiloe 
Amgine,  known  as  the  Slavonic  Poe,  willed  his  imag- 
ination to  his  friend,  the  great  German  algebraist  Von 


CHARACTERISTICS.  177 

Heidenbrugger,  and  in  consequence  of  the  fact  that 
two  sets  of  qualities  came  thus  to  exist  in  the  same 
being  with  equality  of  force,  the  mathematician  wrote 
a  superb  ode  on  the  square  root  of  x  raised  to  the 
ninth  power,  and  was  in  consequence  put  in  the  asy- 
lum at  Cracow. 

Other  as  sad  failures,  however,  did  not  deter  three 
men  of  the  lower  circle  of  the  society  from  agreeing 
that  as  each  died  his  best  faculties  were  to  become  the 
property  of  the  survivors,  it  being  supposed  that  as 
they  were  all  people  of  varied  endowments  the  survivor 
of  this  intellectual  tontine  would  end  by  possessing 
such  force  as  would  raise  him  to  eminence. 

Count  Ortroff,  the  youngest  of  the  three,  was  a  man 
of  great  personal  beauty,  and  endowed  with  a  rather 
light  mental  organization ;  apparently,  one  of  those 
butterfly  natures  which  are  generally  acceptable,  but 
incapable  of  profound  affection.  He  had  too  easily 
captured  the  heart  of  his  cousin,  a  woman  of  force  and 
remarkable  charms,  but  quite  too  well  aware  of  the 
slightness  of  character  of  her  lover.  The  engagement 
was  broken  off  by  a  singular  incident. 

One  morning  in  May  Count  Ortroff  became  sud- 
denly aware  of  a  change  in  himself.  He  awoke  to  a 
sense  of  vigor  and  activity  of  mind  and  body  un- 
known before.  Commonly  gentle  and  confiding,  he 
felt  now  a  sense  of  desire  to  be  aggressive,  and 
scolded  his  valet  because  he  had  ventured  to  inquire 
of  him  whether  he  would  ride  or  drive  to  the  prin- 
cess's country-seat. 

All  that  day  he  felt  himself  a  victim  of  contending 
forces.  He  was  for  the  first  time  aware  of  being 


178  CHARACTERISTICS. 

deeply  in  love,  and  astonished  the  princess  as  much 
by  the  unwonted  manifestations  of  passion  as  by 
abrupt  outbreaks  of  vehement  criticism  of  various 
people.  As  a  rule  he  was  gentle,  refined,  and  most 
suave  of  speech,  and  to  this  his  easy  nature  inclined 
him.  Also,  he  had  known  himself  to  be  so  wanting  in 
courage  that  he  regarded  the  possible  consequences 
of  a  quarrel  with  terror,  and  had  declined  to  enter  the 
army.  His  life  was  spent  in  concealing  this  painful 
defect  of  character. 

After  seeing  the  princess  he  remained  at  home  for 
two  days,  reflecting  on  the  sudden  changes  which  had 
made  him  an  irascible  man  and  a  passionate  lover, 
and  had  also,  as  it  seemed,  lifted  him  into  a  higher 
intellectual  sphere.  In  his  amazement  he  consulted 
the  chief  councilor  of  the  society,  Ivanovitch  Dolinko- 
vitch,  who  said  at  once,  "  But  was  not  yours  the  No. 
27,  Moral  Tontine!" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  should  have  prepared  yourself  to  as- 
similate usefully  the  moral  and  mental  properties 
of  General  Graboskovitch  and  Captain  Viloff.  You 
could  by  continuous  effort  of  will  have  been  ready  to 
decline  to  entertain  in  your  soul  their  bad  qualities, 
and  to  welcome  their  better  ones.  You  have  been 
loosely  and  thoughtlessly  acceptive.  It  is  now  too 
late.  I  was  always  fearful  that  your  soul  was  of  low 
specific  gravity.  The  general  died  four  days  ago.  I 
suppose  that  the  more  receptive  nature  of  Captain 
Viloff  secured  the  dead  man's  courage ;  without  it  his 
aggressiveness  would  have  long  since  gotten  him  into 
trouble.  You  must  be  carefuL" 


CHARACTERISTICS.  179 

"  Alas !  "  said  Ortroff,  and  went  away  in  despair. 

A  few  days  later  he  received  a  letter  from  Viloff. 
"I  hear,"  wrote  the  captain,  "that  No.  2  of  our  tontine 
is  gone.  I  am  distressed  to  feel  that  I  come  in  for 
no  addition  to  my  mental  force,  and  that  I  have 
obtained  only  an  excess  of  courage  and  an  absurd 
indifference  to  danger.  All  gentlemen  have  courage 
enough ;  you  will  not  need  that,  but  if  by  ill  luck  you 
have  inherited  the  general's  obstinate  pugnacity,  I  am 
sorry  for  you." 

"  And  I,"  said  Ortroff.     "  I  must  indeed  be  careful." 

A  few  days  later,  at  a  ball,  a  gentleman  offered 
some  trifling  slight  to  the  princess.  Ortroff  was 
present.  An  irresistible  impulse  seized  him.  He  fol- 
lowed the  man  from  the  hall,  and  struck  him.  In- 
stantly an  agony  of  fear  came  upon  him ;  a  duel  was 
of  course  unavoidable.  He  sat  up  all  night,  and  on 
the  field  next  day  displayed  such  signs  of  cowardice 
that  his  seconds  declined  to  act.  He  apologized  to  his 
scornful  foe,  and  a  few  hours  after  drove  to  the  house 
of  Dr.  Dolinkovitch,  to  whom  he  related  his  trouble. 
The  doctor  was  both  sympathetic  and  interested.  At 
last  he  said:  "You  have  only  to  follow  my  advice. 
Go  to  the  chief  hotel  and  take  rooms.  To-morrow 
get  up  late,  and  go  into  the  street  in  your  shirt  and 
drawers.  The  police  will  arrest  you.  Ask  if  it  is 
midnight,  and  say  you  want  them  to  find  me,  that  I 
know  your  watch  is  out  of  order.  They  will  send  for 
me,  as  I  am  the  police  surgeon.  You  will  act  wildly, 
and  I  will  send  you  to  an  insane  asylum.  In  two 
months  you  will  come  out  well,  and  your  failure  will 
be  regarded  as  having  been  due  to  mental  disorder." 


180  CHARACTERISTICS. 

Ortroff  hesitated,  but  a  note  from  the  princess 
breaking  off  the  engagement  determined  him,  and  the 
next  day  he  followed  out  the  doctor's  advice  to  the 
letter,  and  was  sent  to  an  asylum.  His  friends  and 
family  gladly  accepted  the  excuse,  and  took  care  to 
circulate  it  widely. 

After  two  or  three  months  he  returned  to  his  es- 
tates profoundly  depressed.  A  week  later  he  became 
aware  of  a  new  change.  The  acquisition  of  the  vigor- 
ous intelligence  of  the  general  had  made  even  more 
painful  the  sense  of  his  own  defect  in  courage,  and 
the  whole  affair  of  the  duel  had  troubled  greatly  the 
members  of  the  circle,  who  had  been  much  attached 
to  him  by  reason  of  his  sweetness  of  character  and 
gentle  manners.  These,  in  a  degree,  had  suffered  by 
the  inheritance  of  General  Graboskovitch's  soldierly 
roughness  and  shortness  of  temper.  But  fear  of  his 
own  defects,  together  with  his  newly  acquired  acute- 
ness  of  mind,  had  somewhat  enabled  him,  as  time 
went  on,  to  control  and  modify  them. 

But  now,  again,  there  was  a  change.  Captain  Vil- 
off,  dangerously  stimulated  by  an  overplus  of  audac- 
ity, had  been  again  and  again  wounded,  and  at  last 
in  a  desperate  night  attack  on  the  frontier  was  mor- 
tally hurt.  The  news  already  found  Ortroff  a  new 
man.  Indeed,  before  he  heard  that  he  was  the  sur- 
viving heir  of  the  qualities  of  the  other  two  members 
of  the  tontine,  he  had  begun  to  feel  the  influence  of 
the  quality  of  courage  which  the  two  dead  members 
possessed.  The  results  greatly  interested  the  circle. 
Again  the  count  was  seen  in  the  neighboring  town, 
and  every  one  except  the  members  of  his  secret  society 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  181 

was  astonished  to  hear  that  he  had  called  out  his  old 
antagonist,  had  explained  to  his  seconds  that  his  fear 
was  only  the  coming  on  of  his  mental  trouble,  and 
had  badly  wounded  his  opponent.  As  a  result  every 
one  called  upon  him,  and  with  perfect  calmness  he 
himself  went  to  visit  the  princess. 

She  received  him  coldly.  Her  notable  intelligence 
was  dominated  by  immense  tenderness,  by  all  the  self- 
sacrificial  qualities  found  in  many  women,  and  by  a 
feminine  adoration  of  masculine  beauty.  These  had 
twice  involved  her  in  love-affairs  with  weaker  persons 
of  the  male  sex,  and  now  her  chief  difficulty  in  renew- 
ing her  promise  to  marry  Ortroff  arose  from  the  fact 
that  he  seemed  to  possess  the  stronger  will,  and  no 
longer  appealed  silently  to  her  sympathies  by  his 
gentleness  and  instability.  She  replied  to  his  passion- 
ate wooing  that  she  could  not  marry  a  coward. 

"  But  I  am  not.  I  will  submit  to  any  test,"  he  as- 
sured her.  "  There  is  my  duel.  I  was,  of  course,  in- 
sane." At  this  she  smiled  incredulously. 

"I  do  not  know  now  whether  I  love  you  or  not. 
Give  me  six  months  to  reflect,  and — and — bring  me 
the  order  of  St.  George  won  on  the  battle-field." 

Then  she  kissed  him,  and  fled  from  the  room. 

Six  weeks  later,  he  was  mortally  wounded  in  the 
desperate  struggle  of  Olnovina,  and  a  friend  brought 
the  princess  the  cross  which  the  emperor  left  on  his 
breast  as  he  lay  dying  in  the  hospital  at  Yasiloff. 

"  What  a  cruel  ending !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"It  was  a  good  exercise  in  Russian,"  said  Clay- 
borne,  as  he  cast  the  manuscript  on  the  table.    "  North 


182  CHARACTERISTICS. 

would  have  rendered  it  better.  I  hope  it  has  amused 
you." 

"  Oh,  amused !  No,"  returned  Mrs.  Vincent ;  "  it  has 
interested  me.  I  wonder  if  there  can  be  any  founda- 
tion for  it." 

"  My  wife  has  a  coy  interest  in  mysticism,"  laughed 
V  Vincent.  "She  enjoys  a  little  flirtation  with  the 
vague." 

"  Then  never  could  a  flirtation  with  you  have  de- 
lighted her,"  said  I. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  cried ;  "  he  is  atrociously  definite. 
But  what  is  there  vague  about  all  this  strange  story  ? 
It  seems  to  the  man  who  tells  it  to  have  happened." 

"I  think  it  in  a  measure  explicable,"  I  returned. 
"  The  doctrine  of  suggestion  might  —  " 

"There,  don't  explain  it,"  she  broke  in.  "I  shall 
wait  the  demise  of  some  of  my  friends  with  interest. 
Be  it  true  or  not,  I  understand  the  woman." 

"I  do  not,"  said  St.  Clair.  "How  could  a  highly 
intelligent  woman  care  for  a  man  as  feminine  as  he  ? " 

"  And  you  of  all  people !  You,  who  worship  per- 
sonal beauty ! "  said  Vincent. 

"  I  am  answered,"  cried  the  poet. 

"No,  not  fully,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "And  still,  as 
for  myself,  although  I  understand  the  woman  instinct- 
ively, I  cannot  explain." 

"  That  is  not  understanding,"  said  Clayborne,  in  his 
blunt  way. 

"  Possibly  not ;  but  I  decline  to  betray  the  secret 
counsels  of  my  own  sex.  And  here  is  your  tea.  One 
lump  or  two  ?  " 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  183 

The  little  chat  had  amused  me,  as,  glancing  at  Mrs. 
Vincent's  face,  I  had  seen  it  flush  faintly.  She  had 
been  twice  engaged  before  she  married  my  friend, 
and,  until  then,  her  favored  lovers  had  been  men  be- 
neath her  both  in  mind  and  character.  She  once  said 
to  me,  "  When  you  come  at  last  to  pay  the  debts  con- 
tracted by  that  idiot  Pity,  the  little  god  is  apt  to  put 
up  the  shutters  and  declare  that  he  is  not  at  home  for 
business."  I  should  have  liked  to  hear  more  from  her 
on  this  subject,  because  the  love-affairs  of  the  best 
women  are  often  inexplicable  to  men,  and  perhaps  also 
to  the  women  concerned.  I  ventured  on  one  occasion 
to  ask  her  a  leading  question  on  this  serious  matter. 
She  said,  smiling,  "  Have  you  not  observed  that  clever 
women  are  apt  to  have  more  than  one  serious  love- 
affair?" 

I  said  that  I  had  made  that  not  difficult  observa- 
tion. 

"Ah,  well,"  she  said,  "I  will  make  it  clear  to  you. 
The  answer  to  any  one  such  drama  is  in  the  next." 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  is  delightfully  lucid— to  a  woman." 

As  I  sipped  my  tea  I  turned  over  a  book  of  etch- 
ings, while  our  hostess  went  on  talking  the  prettiest 
mere  society  nonsense  to  St.  Clair  and  Clayborne. 
Her  husband,  much  amused,  sat  by.  Now  and  then 
she  darted  at  him  a  swift  glance  of  fun,  or  sought  his 
eyes  with  a  look  of  questioning  eagerness.  Whatever 
ideals  had  once  been  hers,  she  had  found  a  trusted 
anchorage  in  the  man  she  married.  Indeed,  I  think 
the  admiration  she  excited  was  one  of  the  happinesses 
of  Vincent's  existence,  and  in  every  relation  the  per- 


184  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

feet  tact  with  which  these  two  managed  their  common 
life  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  see.  Like  many  kind  and 
able  women,  dulness  was  for  her  no  barrier  to  friend- 
ship ;  but  to  none  was  Vincent  so  charming  as  to  her 
uninteresting  friends,  to  none  so  generous  and  so 
courteous.  She  repaid  the  debt  in  kind  to  us  all,  and, 
as  to  St.  Clair,  was  a  sort  of  confessor  to  whom  he 
confided  his  occasional  troubles  with  a  quiet,  childlike 
certainty  of  help.  I  think  that  she  did  not  much 
fancy  Clayborne,  but  the  art  of  absolute  social  mas- 
querade belongs  to  the  woman  alone,  and  I  doubt  if 
even  Vincent  suspected  her  of  caring  less  for  the 
scholar  than  for  her  husband's  other  friends.  Hear- 
ing the  talk  take  a  more  serious  turn,  I  drew  my  chair 
nearer. 

"  Yes,"  said  Vincent ;  "  a  nation  in  the  making  is 
as  to  its  individuals  more  interesting  than  one  which 
is  set  in  slowly  changing  historic  ruts.  As  a  rule,  the 
English  people — I  mean  the  undistinguished — are  to 
me  of  all  the  dullest.  The  chance  American  of  any 
class,  as  one  meets  him  in  travel,  is  by  far  more  amus- 
ing. I  don't  speak  of  his  manners ;  he  is  apt  enough 
to  be  common,  just  as  the  corresponding  Englishman 
is  to  be  vulgar ;  but  class  for  class,  our  people  interest 
me  more." 

"  But  how  silent  they  are." 

"  Yes  5  yet  open  to  talk  if  you  ask  for  it.  We  had 
once  the  name  with  our  cousins  of  being  questioning 
creatures,  but  really  I  think  that  of  late  years  we  have 
exchanged  roles.  Certainly  the  frank  inquisitiveness 
of  the  English  is  past  belief." 

"  If,"  said  St.  Clair,  with  his  easy  way  of  dislocating 


CHARACTERISTICS.  185 

the  talk,  "  I  had  to  attend  to  the  education  of  a  nation, 
I  should  declare  a  war  once  in  every  fifty  years  at 
least." 

"  I  don't  care  myself  to  manufacture  any  more  his- 
tory," returned  Vincent;  "but  certainly  the  genera- 
tion which  emerged  from  our  great  strife,  North  and 
South,  was  the  better  for  it." 

"And  what  faces  it  wrought!  "  said  St.  Clair.  "I 
stood  and  saw  go  by  me  in  Washington  that  army 
which  followed  Sherman  to  the  sea — grave,  thought- 
ful, strong-featured,  with  eyes  looking  homeward." 

"And  behind  them  the  dead  of  countless  homes," 
said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  and  that  desolated,  mourning 
South.  Let  us  talk  of  other  things;  I  cannot  even 
now  think  of  it  without  pain." 

"  It  was  but  the  historic  consequences  of  folly  and 
crime,"  said  Clayborne. 

She  made  no  answer  except  in  her  gentlest  tone  to 
ask  me  to  ring  for  the  servant  to  remove  the  tea-tray. 
I  knew  that  one  of  her  brothers,  long  settled  in  the 
South,  had  lost  his  life  in  the  Confederate  cause,  and 
I  could  have  soundly  cuffed  Clayborne,  who  never 
remembered  anything  not  in  books.  Now  he  rose  to 
go,  as  we  decided  that  it  was  too  late  to  hear  the 
"Memoir";  but  then,  retiring  to  a  corner,  as  though 
he  had  forgotten  his  intention,  sat  down  to  read  the 
nearest  book. 

St.  Clair,  who  was  greatly  attached  to  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent, noticing  the  slight  look  of  pain  which  still  lin- 
gered on  her  face,  said,  "  You  have  been  glancing  at  my 
little  book." 

"Yes.    Read  me  something."    And  then — and  this 


186  CHARACTERISTICS. 

was  quite  characteristic — "  I  should  like  the  lines  on 
Lincoln."    He  took  up  the  book  and  read : 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state, 

His  spirit  armed  in  rugged  mail  of  mirth, 

Ever  above  yet  ever  near  the  earth, 

Still  felt  his  heart  the  vulture-beaks  that  sate 

Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander  wait 

Till  the  sharp  lightning  brings  the  awful  hour 

When  wounds  and  suffering  give  them  double  power. 

Most  was  he  like  that  Luther,  gay  and  great, 
Solemn  and  mirthful,  strong  of  head  and  limb. 
Tender  and  simple  was  he  too ;  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear, 
And  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child, 
Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  him 
Who  always  for  earth's  little  ones  has  smiled. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "And  one  more  before  you 
go." 

"  This  is  not  mine,  but  a  friend's.  He  has  a  certain 
terror  of  publicity,  but  you  will  see  at  the  close  of  the 
book  I  have  put  together  a  few  of  his  verses.  They 
have  a  fineness  of  quality  I  like.  He  does  not  write 
for  the  world,  but  as  you  write  to  a  friend.  He  has 
pleasure  in  the  clear  coinage  thought  finds  only  when 
on  paper." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  man,"  she  said.  "And  thank 
you  again." 

"  Shall  I  read  any  more  ? "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  j  "  if  you  will  be  so  good." 

He  took  a  book  from  the  table,  and  read  aloud  the 
first  half  of  "  Saul."  As  he  read  I  watched  him  and 
her.  He  seemed  to  know  he  was  soothing  her,  that 


CHARACTERISTICS.  187 

this  was  what  she  needed.  He  read  the  po.em  as  a  boy 
explores  a  fresh  stream  or  wood,  with  thoughtful  joy, 
and  as  though  he  had  just  discovered  it  all,  and  was 
sharing  it  with  you.  As  he  turned  the  last  leaf,  she 
said  quickly,  "  Do  not  read  the  second  part." 

"  No  danger  of  that,"  he  said.  "  I  think  that  at  a 
certain  age  the  poets  should  be  retired  on  prose  pen- 
sions." 

"  And  who  shall  set  the  date  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Not  I,"  she  replied  j  "  and  yet— and  yet— » 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Merely  that  I  feel  now  as  to  this  poet  as  one  feels 
about  a  friend  who,  as  life  goes  on,  ceases  to  be  what 
he  was,  and  becomes  something  else  which  is  no  longer 
grateful  to  you.  You  knew  and  loved  him  when  only 
a  few  others  understood  him.  And  now,  when  he  has 
won  the  adulation  of  the  literary  populace,  you  can 
only  look  on,  and  wonder  with  a  little  sadness  at  the 
character  of  the  development  which  time  has  brought 
about." 

"It  is  true,"  said  St.  Clair.  "Once  I  went  to  a 
society,  and  a  gentleman  in  the  dry-goods  business 
unrolled  for  us  a  mummy.  He  explained  the  pro- 
cesses of  embalming  and  the  spices  used,  and  then  the 
object  of  it  and  its  relation  to  the  solar  system  and  to 
the  manufacture  of  oleomargarine.  He  told  us,  too, 
how  the  Egyptians  embalmed  geese,  and,  reverting  to 
his  mummy,  made  plain  to  us  that,  having  exposed 
the  body  thereof,  it  was  found  that  it  was  not  always 
possible  to  decide  its  sex  or  nature.  I  think  I  must 
have  been  half  asleep,  because,  just  as  he  assured  us 
that  this  state  of  bewilderment  was  the  main  value  of 


188  CHARACTERISTICS. 

the  study  of  mummification,  and  that  it  was  a  wise  in- 
vention of  beneficent  priests  to  train,  through  vexa- 
tion, the  intellect  of  the  future,  I  woke  up  and  knew 
that  he  was  discussing  '  Sordello '  with  occasional  allu- 
sions to  Mr.  Sludge." 

"  I  never  before  knew  you  half  so  cynical,"  said  our 


"Really,  I  have  not  put  it  too  strongly.  These 
societies  for  the  infinitesimal  dilution  of  criticism  are 
exasperating.  How  the  poet  must  laugh  in  his  sleeve ! 
My  only  comfort  is  that  we  did  not  invent  the  craze. 
There  is  a  true  story  that  an  Englishwoman  broke  off 
her  engagement  with  a  sturdy  guardsman  because  he 
did  not  know  who  Browning  was.  She  took  the  man 
back  again  into  favor  when  he  was  able  to  stand  an 
examination  on  '  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess,'  and  '  The 
Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country.' " 

"  At  least  now,  for  a  while,  they  will  let  my  Shak- 
spere  alone.  They  have  fresher  prey." 

"  That  is  curious,"  said  the  poet.  "  Did  not  you  see, 
Clayborne,  that  lately  in  repairing  Shakspere's  tomb 
there  was  found  on  the  under  side  of  the  marble  slab 

the  lines, 

"Who  stirs  the  ashes  of  my  verse 
In  his  soul  shall  roost  a  curse  f  " 

"What?  what?"  cried  Clayborne.  "Nonsense!" 
While  the  rest  of  us  smiled,  and  the  poet,  who  de- 
lighted to  mystify  the  historian,  burst  into  childlike 
laughter. 

"  In  my  young  days,"  said  I,  "  the  business  of  dis- 
secting dead  poets  had  hardly  begun.  When  but  a 
boy  I  asked  a  mild  old  professor  what  Shakspere 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  189 

meant  by  '  Many,  come  up.'  He  reflected  a  little,  and 
then  said  it  meant  merely  advice  to  marry,  and  indi- 
cated the  elevation  of  soul  which  would  follow." 

"  But  he  was  jesting  at  you." 

"  Not  at  all.  He  was  quite  vexed  at  the  smile  of  an 
elder  boy  who  stood  by,  and  who  cleared  my  head 
about  it  when  we  had  left  the  class-room.  I  could  tell 
you  my  critic's  name,  but  I  will  not." 

"Don't  you  want  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent, 
uto  do  to  your  books  as  the  Russian  censors  do  to 
newspapers,  and  blot  ruthlessly  some  parts  of  them  ? 
If  a  human  friend  is  silly,  or  wanting  in  some  way, 
it  is  not  thrust  on  you  forever ;  but  the  folly  of  our 
friend-book  we  cannot  escape.  One  must  take  our 
friend-book  as  all  friends  must  be  taken,  with  reason- 
able charity  as  to  defect  and  limitation." 

"  A  noble  old  man  whom  I  know  well,"  I  said,  "has 
had  printed  for  himself  in  a  book  all  the  bits  of  verse 
he  loves  best ;  the  little  poems,  the  old  ballads,  he  fan- 
cies; whatever  taste,  circumstance,  or  remembrance 
has  made  dear  to  him." 

"  That  really  is  a  good  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"  Could  n't  I  do  that,  Fred  ? " 

"  Readily,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  The  book  might 
be  a  trifle  large.  And  shall  it  be  only  verse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  two ;  I  cannot  mix  them.  And 
a  book  or  two  there  are  I  can't  have  in  chips.  By  the 
way,  is  n't  this  a  charming  thought  ? "  And  so  saying 
she  gave  me  from  the  table  a  little  copy  of  Marcus 
Aurelius.  It  was  uncut,  and  tied  to  the  long  ribbon 
marker  was  a  paper-cutter  having  on  its  handle  a  coin 
stamped  with  the  features  of  the  great  emperor  and. 


190  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

greater  man.  I  knew  in  a  moment  who  had  given  it 
by  St.  Glair's  pleased  look. 

As  I  studied  the  grave  face  on  the  coin,  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent said:  "I  am  waiting  to  cut  the  leaves.  I  did 
begin,  but  then  fell  to  thinking  of  the  emperor  man 
guiding  my  fingers  through  his  own  immortal  pages, 
and  how  some  Roman  boy,  playing  at  pitch-penny 
with  this  coin,  may  have  paused  as  the  emperor 
passed,  and  turned  to  see  if  the  medal  were  like  him 
or  not.  I  shall  wait." 

"Would  he  have  been  more  great,  or  less,"  asked 
Vincent,  "  but  for  the  woman,  his  wife,  who  had  no 
sense  of  the  moral  stature  of  the  man  ? " 

"  I  do  not  surely  know,"  she  answered.  "  Women 
may  immensely  help  men,  but  the  strong  of  purpose 
even  a  bad  woman  does  not  mar.  The  best  and  the 
greatest  have  had  bad  luck  with  wives.  The  women 
who  can  worship  the  heroic,  and  yet  use  their  own 
common  sense  usefully  to  criticize  the  hero — oh,  they 
must  be  very  rare  indeed.  And  as  to  that  book,  I 
think  I  shall  rest  content  with  my  present  plan." 

"And  that?"  I  said. 

"  I  keep  near  me  on  my  table  a  few  books,  three  or 
four — real  books,  I  mean ;  books  that  are  in  the  peer- 
age of  thought.  They  are  as  friends  invited  for  a 
limited  stay.  Some  day  they  go  back  to  their  home 
on  the  shelves,  and  others  are  invited  to  their  places. 
But  I  meant  to  ask  you  how  such  a  man  could  have 
had  a  son  like  Commodus." 

"His  father,"  I  replied,  "had  virtue  lifted  to  the 
height  of  genius,  and  genius  is  not  heritable.  By  the 
by,  a  great  Frenchman  has  said  that  is  why  genius  is 


CHAEACTEKISTICS.  191 

not  fl.THn  to  madness,  since  madness  is  so  apt  to  de- 
scend with  the  blood.  And  there,  too,  was  the  mother." 

"And  so,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  rising,  "  the  blame  is 
to  fall  as  usual  on  my  sex.  I  shall  leave  you,  I  think, 
to  your  cigars.  I  have  exhausted  your  wisdom. 
Good-night,  and  thank  you  again,  Mr.  St.  Clair." 

We  rose,  and  she  left  us. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Vincent  said,  "Have  you 
guessed  the  man  St.  Glair's  friend  describes  in  that 
little  poem  ?  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  I  saw  the  sculptor  look  up  with  a  gleam 
of  amusement  in  his  face.  "Oh,  it  is  a  character; 
merely  a  character." 

"  I  fancy  I  know  the  man,"  I  returned.  "  I  mean  to 
respect  his  incognito.  More  might  be  said  of  him. 
He  was,  when  first  I  saw  him,  a  rather  narrow  person, 
but  it  was  the  narrowness  not  of  parallel  lines,  but  of 
a  broadening  angle  sure  to  enlarge.  In  all  ways  his 
life  has  widened  with  the  years — his  tastes,  his  char- 
ity, his  intellect,  his  power  to  please  and  be  pleased, 
his  range  of  sympathies.  As  a  young  man  he  was 
cynical,  at  least  in  talk,  which  is  sometimes  far  enough 
away  from  the  cynicism  of  action.  We  used  to  call 
him  bitter,  but  some  able  men  are  in  youth  like  per- 
simmons, and  ripen  into  sweetness  under  the  frosts  of 
circumstance." 

"  The  men,"  said  Vincent,  "  who  reverse  your  com- 
parison, and,  facing  all  their  lives  a  lessening  angle, 
narrow  to  the  point  called  death — we  know  them  also." 

Said  St.  Clair,  "  Let  us  hope  that  the  crossing  lines 
create  for  them  too  the  widening  angle  of  larger 
growth." 


xin. 

HE  account  I  had  so  long  promised     / 
my  friends  of  the  character-doctor  * 
was  delayed  by  a  variety  of  matters. 
But  one  evening  in  the  winter  we 
met   again  at  Vincent's.     When  I 
came  in  the  room  was  ringing  with 


the  notes  of  his  wife's  voice.  She  had  set  for  St.  Clair 
a  little  love-song.  Her  voice  had  the  rare  charm  of 
rendering  the  words  with  perfect  distinctness,  and  the 
music  was  such  as  prettily  to  humor  the  sentiments 
of  the  verse.  As  she  finished,  he  took  it  up  and  read 
it  in  his  fervid  way. 

"  Alas,"  he  said,  "  we  have  lost  the  art  of  song.  The 
gaiety  and  self-abandonment  of  its  Elizabethan  notes 
are  dead  for  us.  All  the  pretty  silliness  of  it — its 
careless  folly,  and  its  gay  music — rings  with  the  life 
of  that  splendid  day.  Think  of  the  lusty  vigor  of  it, 
the  noble  madness  of  the  lives.  Imagine  the  struggle 
for  national  existence  which  made  poets  soldiers,  and 
gave  to  life  that  uncertainty  which  makes  man  natural 
and  outspoken.  Here  was  a  queen  who,  whatever  her 
faults,  had  the  art  to  get  from  noble  men  an  ever 
nobler  service;  a  woman  who  somehow  influenced 
men  toward  greatness  as  surely  as  her  '  sister  of  de- 
bate '  made  worse  all  who  loved  her." 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  193 

"  Oh,"  laughed  Vincent,  "  we  should  have  Clayborne 
give  you  his  cold  judgment  of  Elizabeth." 

"And  almost  all  he  would  say  is  true,"  cried  St. 
Clair,  "  and  yet  but  half  the  story.  It  wants  a  poet 
for  entire  estimate  of  the  values  of  character.  Your 
sweet,  gentle,  merely  lovely  woman  makes  on  man  no 
permanent  impression.  There  must  be  force  some- 
where to  evolve  force.  A  very  feminine  woman  with 
some  flavor  of  the  resoluteness  of  the  masculine  char-  / 
acter  has  the  trick  to  keep  men  steadily  influenced, 
and  there  must  be,  too,  tie  high-minded  sympathy 
with  heroism — in  fact,  some  touch  of  that  quality  in 
the  woman  herself." 

"  I  meant,"  I  said,  "  to  have  added  a  word  to  what 
St.  Clair  said.  England  was  musical  in  those  days. 
Without  that  the  song  has  no  natural  birth.  Music 
died,  and  the  song  with  it,  as  Puritanism  grew  to  be 
a  power.  It  was  lucky  for  Germany,  I  think,  that 
Luther  loved  music." 

"  The  thought  is  interesting,"  remarked  Clayborne. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  But  to  go  back  to  our 
last  subject.  One  of  these  days  I  mean  to  write  wom- 
en's husbands.  A  calm  statement  of  our  side  might 
be  valuable.  I  should  take  as  my  title-page  motto  the 
wise  words  of  a  friend  of  mine, '  Men  differ,  but  all 
husbands  are  alike.' " 

"  That  would  begin  and  end  your  book,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  the  husband  is  generically  alike,  but  specific- 
ally various.  You  may  smile,  but  wait  until  you  read 
my  chapter  on  the  management  of  husbands.  How- 
ever, I  do  not  mean  to  spoil  my  literary  venture  by 
talking  about  it." 


194  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Give  me  a  few  points,"  laughed  St.  Clair.  "At 
any  time  I  may  become  a  victim.  I  cannot  imagine 
it,  but  everything  is  possible." 

"  Might  I  protest  ? "  cried  Vincent. 

"  No,  indeed,"  we  said  in  one  breath. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  quite  impersonal,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  and  suppose  we  question  you ? "  said  I.  "Is 
marriage,  as  we  see  it,  a  failure  ? " 

"  What  a  question !  Is  business  ?  Are  books  ? 
There  are  three  marriages.  One  is  a  monarchy;  a 
king  or  queen  presides  over  life.  One  is  a  true  feder- 
ative republic;  there  is  equality  under  large  sense 
of  law  and  of  mutual  rights.  The  third  is  anarchy. 
Time  is  the  true  priest.  Many  couples  who  seem  un- 
fitly mated  learn  as  years  go  by  to  find  the  happiness 
they  miss  at  first.  There  are  people  who  ask  too  much 
of  life.  Sometimes  they  fail  as  to  their  own  ideals  and 
get  what  is  better.  I  shall  have  a  chapter  on  the  friend- 
ship of  marriage,  and  one  on  its  disappointments." 

"And  one,"  said  Vincent,  "on  the  marriage  of  friend- 
ship." 

"Might  I  say  of  that,"  she  returned,  "that  if  not  a 
marriage  of  convenance  (for  it  is  more  than  that),  it  is, 
at  least,  a  marriage  of  convenience  f " 

"Good!  "cried  I. 

"And  now  we  are  going  to  hear  something  more ; 
it  is  interesting,"  said  St.  Clair. 

"No;  I  elect  to  pause  here.  I  give  you  only  one 
piece  of  advice." 

"Well?" 

"Don't  marry  a  fool.  If  you  would  only  let  me 
choose  for  you." 


CHAKACTEEISTICS.  195 

"Agreed,"  said  St.  Clair,  "if  I  may  have  a  veto." 

"By  all  means.    But—" 

At  this  moment  Vincent's  servant  came  in  with  a 
note  for  me.  "Pardon  me,"  I  said.  "Your  revelations 
must  keep,  at  least  for  me.  I  have  to  go  to  the  hospital. 
I  may  be  gone  a  half -hour,  or  much  longer.  Good-by, 
Mrs.  Vincent." 

"I  am  sorry.  I  had  set  my  mind  on  a  pleasant 
evening." 

"What  is  your  errand  at  St.  Ann's?"  said  Vincent, 
as  I  rose  to  go. 

"A  consultation  with  the  surgeons." 

"Might  I  go  with  you!"  said  St.  Clair. 

I  looked  at  him,  astonished.  "Well,  yes,"  I  returned, 
doubtfully.  "But  you  may  have  to  wait  long  if  you 
remain  until  I  can  leave  the  wards.  What  on  earth, 
my  dear  St.  Clair,  can  you  want  now,  at  night  ?  There 
is  nothing  to  see." 

"I  will  tell  you  as  we  go.  If  you  say  no,  I  shall  be 
satisfied." 

"Very  well;  come,  and  make  haste,"  I  said,  as  the 
others  bade  us  good-night. 

Presently,  as  we  walked  along,  St.  Clair  said,  "Your 
note  told  you  that  a  man  was  probably  dying.  An 
operation  might  save  him." 

"Certainly." 

\X  "I  want  to  see  death.  I  want  to  see  a  man  die.  I 
never  saw  that  strange  thing.  I  have  two  reasons. 
One  is  related  to  my  art,  and  is  not  an  unworthy 
reason.  But  also,  North,  lif  e  is  an  immense  happiness 
to  me,  and  I  feel  some  strange  craving  at  times  to  see 
its  misery,  its  darker  side." 


196  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Great  heaven !     It  is  all  around  you." 

"Yes,  no  doubt;  but  I  cannot  grasp  it.  If  I  help  a 
beggar,  his  satisfaction  alone  goes  with  me.  I  can  be 
sad  on  paper,  but  nowhere  else.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I 
reflect,  unnatural,  wrong.  I  think  I  realize  grief  and 
pain  and  trouble  for  others,  but  not  as  a  thing  possi- 
ble for  me.  And  this  great  awful  fact  of  all  life — 
death — I  must  see  it." 

I  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  I  said,  "Per- 
haps you  are  right.  I  am  not  sure.  But  you  shall 
have  your  way." 

"And  death,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  seen  it  until 
it  is  commonplace  to  you." 

"I  have  seen  it,"  I  said,  "countless  deaths  in  battle, 
/  executions,  death-beds — men,  women,  and  children. 
It  has  never  quite  lost  for  me  its  awfulness.  The  ma- 
terialism which  makes  it  seem  the  mere  stopping  of  a 
machine,  into  which  I  once  reasoned  myself,  lessened 
and  left  me  long  ago.  Once,  by  a  death-bed  in  a  hos- 
pital, I  heard  a  surgeon  say,  as  a  man  ceased  to 
breathe,  'It  has  stopped ;  the  engine  has  ceased  to  go.' 
His  senior,  an  old  man,  replied,  'No ;  the  engineer  has 
left  it.'  I  have  ceased  to  reason  about  it.  At  every 
dead  man's  side  I  feel  more  and  more  that  something, 
J  immaterial  as  the  Being  who  willed  the  thing  to  live, 
has  escaped  me  and  my  analysis.  Life  seems  to  me  a 
thing  as  real,  as  positive,  as  death,  and,  trust  me,  St. 
Glair,  as  we  live  on  and  on,  we  get  to  have  more  and 
more  trust  in  recognitions  of  truths  indefensible  by 
mere  logic.  To  the  man  whom  the  latter  despotically 
governs  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  the  way  of  blame." 

"As  I  think  of  it,"  said  St.  Clair,  "death,  of  which  I 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  197 

have  seen  nothing,  only  excites  my  boundless  curios- 
ity ;  and  as  I  observe  that  generally  I  am  correct  in 
my  predictions  about  myself,  and  am  by  nature  fear- 
less, I  suspect  that  I  would  feel  more  curiosity  than 
dread  if  I  knew  that  I  were  to  die  to-night.  One  fear 
I  certainly  should  have.  I  should  shudder  to  think 
that  my  curiosity  might  not  be  gratified.  And  you  ? 
Do  you  think  it  will  be  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  We  are  on  ground  which  I  rarely 
tread  in  talk.  Some  men,  and  I  am  one,  shrink  from 
these  discussions  as  they  grow  older.  One  says  more 
or  less  than  one  means,  and  a  word  said  is  like  a  bullet 
sped.  As  to  some  things  I  like  to  be  silent.  One  gets 
into  the  power  of  words." 

"What  are  you  saying?"  I  added.  He  was  speak- 
ing under  his  breath.  He  at  once  repeated  aloud  what 
he  had  been  murmuring. 

Death  seems  so  simple.     Will  it  be 
Only  a  new  complexity? 
Or  shall  the  broken  body  free 
Broad  wings  of  clearer  life  for  me  ? 

The  mood  and  its  expressed  thoughts  were  unusual 
in  the  joyous  man  beside  me,  and  without  more  words 
we  moved  on  to  the  gate  of  St.  Ann's.  I  left  St.  Clair 
below-stairs,  and  went  up  alone  to  the  consultation. 

Drs.  L and  S awaited  my  coming.     The  case 

was  one  of  old  injury  to  the  head.  The  consulta- 
tion was  called  so  late  in  the  case  that  the  question  of 
the  value  of  an  operation  was  doubtful.  The  charac- 
ter of  the  two  men  came  out  strongly,  as  it  is  apt  to 
do  in  these  grim  councils.  The  one,  L ,  was  clear, 


198  CHARACTERISTICS. 

rapid,  seized  on  the  main  points  with  almost  instinctive 
capacity,  formulated  the  facts  and  reached  his  conclu- 
sions with  confident  decisiveness.  The  other,  S , 

an  older  man,  listened,  read  and  reread  the  notes,  lifted 
into  prominence  for  himself  the  minor  symptoms,  and 
ceaselessly  combated  the  other  doctor's  conclusions,  de- 
ciding finally  against  an  operation  as  useless. 

My  own  voice  settled  the  question  for  operation 
on  the  ground  of  harmlessness  to  a  man  insensible  to 
pain,  and  without  it  sure  to  die.  The  operation  was 

done  swiftly  and  well  by  L .  As  it  went  on  it 

became  clear  that  it  had  failed  because  of  being  a  week 

or  more  too  late.  Said  S ,  who  had  the  case  in 

charge:  "I  always  knew  it  would  fail 5  I  am  sorry  I 
troubled  you  at  all.  I  don't  believe  much  in  brain 
surgery." 

The  instruments  were  cleaned  and  removed,  the 
dressings  arranged,  the  man  carried  to  his  ward  bed, 
and  a  screen  drawn  around  it.  Then  a  fair-haired 
nurse  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  the  man  was  left  to 
his  fate. 

As  L and  I  descended  the  stairs  alone,  he  said 

to  me,  "If  you  or  I  had  had  that  case  a  month  ago, 
it  would  have  been  operated  upon,  and  possibly  saved. 
Certainly  his  chances  would  have  been  enormously 

better.  That  man  S is  like  an  indecisive  little 

child  playing  at  puss-in-the-corner.  He  tries  this 
corner,  and  runs  for  that,  and  all  are  occupied  by 
some  logical  difficulty.  Is  it  a  moral  or  an  intellectual 
defect?" 

I  said :  "  It  has  probably  cost  a  life,  and  must  have 
cost  many.  It  is  not  any  mere  lack  of  reasoning 


CHARACTERISTICS.  199 

power.  His  essays  are  clear.  You  would  think  from 
them  that  he  never  had  a  doubt.  There  he  has  no 
responsibility.  But  let  him  face  a  case,  and  he  be- 
gins to  be  troubled.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  so  tre- 
mendously anxious  to  be  right,  and  to  do  right,  that 
when  human  life  and  interests  enter  into  his  mental 
operations  he  becomes  perplexed.  At  least  that  is  the 
way  I  read  him." 

"  How  different  from  Y ,  who  does  not  care  an 

atom  for  the  patient,  but  is  distracted  by  his  fear  of 
intellectual  failure.  Naturally  he  abhors  the  post- 
mortem criticism.  I  hate  most  of  all  the  fellow  who 
reaches  an  opinion  somehow,  is  scared  by  his  own  de- 
cision, and  begins  to  hedge." 

I  laughed, 

"If  ifsandans 
Were  pots  and  pans, 
How  good  a  brain 
Were  any  man's. 

"  Indecision  is  an  awful  fool.     Good-night." 

In  the  waiting-room  I  found  St.  Clair.  "  Are  you 
still  of  the  same  mind  ? "  said  I.  He  nodded.  "  Then 
come."  And  we  went  up-stairs. 

Stillness  reigned  in  the  dimly  lighted  ward,  except 
for  the  soft  tread  of  a  night  nurse,  or  the  hoarse 
breathing  of  some  sleeper  lost  to  his  own  troubles,  and 
regardless  in  slumber  of  the  neighboring  tragedy  of 
death. 

With  St.  Clair  at  my  side  I  walked  over  to  the  bed, 
drew  the  screen  aside,  and  went  within  its  shelter.  I 
could  see  that  my  friend  was  awed. 

"  He  is  worse,"  said  the  quiet  little  nurse  in  a  low 
14 


200  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

tone.  "  You  can  talk,"  I  said  to  St.  Clair,  "  only  not 
so  as  to  disturb  these  others.  This  man  will  never 
hear  voice  of  earthly  man." 

"  And  he  is  dying ! "  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes,  and  rapidly." 

"  And  has  no  pain  ? 

"No;  none." 

"And  why  don't  you  do  something?" 

"  All  has  been  done.  We  are  face  to  face  with  the 
inevitable." 

"He  seems  as  if  he  was  working,"  said  St.  Clair. 
"  How  flushed  he  is !  How  hard  he  breathes !  And 
he  sweats  like  one  who  toils,  and  has  no  other  expres- 
sion. It  is  like  a  watch  with  the  mainspring  broken, 
all  a  hurry  of  meaningless  motion.  And  his  hands, 
how  they  twitch !  And  this  you  call  death.  I  told 
you  that  I  had  never  seen  it  before,  and  yet  it  looks 
not  unnatural.  Have  we  some  intuition  of  it  ?  I  must 
have  seen  it  before." 

The  young  nurse  looked  up  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  recoiling.  The  mockery  of  laugh- 
ter which  sometimes  contorts  the  face  of  death,  the 
risus  sardonicus,  passed  over  the  features. 

"  Come,"  I  said ;  "  you  have  had  enough  of  this." 

"No;  I  shall  stay.    May  I  stay?" 

"  Certainly.  A  seat,  nurse.  I  will  speak  to  the  head 
nurse."  And  I  left  him. 


xrv. 

OME  time  passed  before  we  met  to 
hear  my  account  of  the  character 
doctor,  and  meanwhile  St.  Clair  had 
abruptly  left  town  the  day  after  our 
hospital  experience. 

Mrs.  Vincent  was  talking  to  her 
husband  when,  just  after  dinner,  I  entered  her  draw- 
ing-room. 

"  It  is  an  age  since  we  met,"  she  cried,  cordially. 
"  Sit  down.  Mr.  Clayborne  will  be  here  shortly.  And 
what  have  you  done  to  my  poor  St.  Clair?  Read 
that,"  and  she  took  from  her  work-basket  a  note  dated 
the  night  I  last  saw  him. 

I  cannot  dine  with  you  to-morrow.  I  have  seen  to-night 
what  I  shall  be  some  day.  It  is  horrible. 

It  was  true,  and  he  had  gone  away  into  the  woods 
for  a  fortnight,  like  a  wounded  animal.  Nor  did  he 
ever  speak  of  it  again,  but  came  back  as  gay  and  joy- 
ous as  usual.  I  returned  the  note  to  her. 

"How  could  you?"  she  said.  "I  should  have 
known  how  he  would  feel." 

"  I  took  him,"  I  returned,  "  because  he  was  reason- 
able in  his  desire  to  see  a  man  die.  But  I  suppose 
that,  with  all  its  awe,  death  is  so  constantly  about  us 


202  CHARACTERISTICS. 

doctors  that  we  cannot  estimate  its  influence  upon 
others.  When  I  left  him — for  he  would  stay — he 
was  simply  curious  and  contemplative." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  that  de- 
scription in  Stendhal  of  the  Italian  who  first  sees  death 
of  a  sudden  on  a  great  battle-field — his  surprise,  his 
curiosity,  and  at  last  his  terror?  It  is  in  his  'La 
Chartreuse  de  Panne.'" 

"  No ;  I  will  look  at  it,  but  I  have  seen  all  this  in 
war  once  or  twice." 

As  she  spoke,  Clayborne  came  in.  "Of  what  are 
you  speaking  ? "  he  said. 

"  Of  fear.  Of  the  anguish  of  fear,  uncontrollable, 
like  the  fear  in  dreams." 

"  Yes ;  the  agony  of  terror,"  I  returned.  "  One  sees 
it  in  the  insane  at  times,  and  in  delirium  tremens. 
There  is  nothing  in  normal  life  to  compare  with  it." 

"  And  were  you  ever  afraid  in  war  ? " 

"  Abominably.  We  were  supposed  as  surgeons  to 
be  non-combatants,  but  that  means  merely  that  one  is 
to  run  risks  without  the  chance  to  quiet  himself  by 
violent  action.  Practically,  we  lost  in  dead  and  hurt 
a  long  list  of  surgeons." 

"Indeed ?  I  did  not  know  that.  And  what  do  you 
think  the  best  test,  after  all,  of  a  man's  courage  ? "  said 
Vincent. 

"  To  face  a  mob  or  a  madman.  I  knew  a  man  who 
once  by  ill  luck  was  shut  up  with  a  crazy,  athletic 
brute.  My  friend  locked  the  door,  hearing  the  man's 
wife  wailing  outside.  The  brute,  while  suffering  from 
a  delusion,  had  once  hurt  her ;  and  now  again  imagin- 
ing her  to  have  been  false  to  him,  meant  to  kill  her. 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  203 

He  asked  for  the  key,  and  gave  my  friend  five  min- 
utes to  reflect,  as  he  stood  before  him  with  a  billet  of 
wood  he  had  seized  from  the  hearth." 

"  And  what  did  your  friend  do  ? " 

"  It  was  summer,  and  the  windows  were  open.  He 
threw  the  key  into  the  street." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  Oh,  help  came  just  as  it  was  wanted,  which  is  rare 
in  this  world.  I  have  cut  a  long  story  short.  My 
friend  said  afterward  that  he  was  glad  of  the  experi- 
ence j  that  he  had  little  hope  of  escape,  and  now  felt 
sure  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  was  equal  to 
any  test  of  courage." 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  said  Vincent.  "  In  these 
quiet  days  we  are  rarely  tried  as  to  courage.  But, 
after  all,  is  n't  it  somewhat  a  matter  of  training — of 
profession?  I  suppose,  North,  it  never  enters  into 
your  mind  to  fear  contagious  disease  ? " 

"  Never ;  except  as  to  one  disease :  I  have  a  fancy  I 
shall  die  of  yeUow  fever." 

"  Oh,  but,"  said  our  hostess,  "  is  n't  it  also  true  that 
physicians  do  not  take  disease  as  others  do  ? " 

"  No ;  that  is  a  popular  notion,  but  quite  untrue.  I 
have  thrice  suffered  from  disease  thus  acquired :  once 
from  smallpox,  twice  from  diphtheria.  In  Ireland,  in 
the  great  typhus  years,  physicians  died  in  frightful 
numbers,  and  so  did  the  old  doctors  here  in  yellow- 
fever  days.  Unlike  the  soldier,  we  are  always  under 
fire." 

"I  should  certainly  run  from  smallpox.  I  might 
face  a  madman,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "As  to  war,  I 
should  run." 


204  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"And  I  from  a  dog,"  said  Clayborne.  "And  you, 
Vincent?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  returned.  "  I  cannot  imagine 
anything  which  would  make  me  visibly  show  fear.  I 
think  I  am  more  afraid  of  what  Anne  would  think  of 
me  than  of  any  earthly  object  of  dread.  I  can  con- 
ceive as  possible  what  North  mentioned.  We  must 
have  somewhere  a  nerve-organ  or  -organs  which  feel 
what  we  call  fear.  Now,  to  have  these  so  diseased  as 
to  originate  a  sensation  of  causeless,  overwhelming  ter- 
ror, uncontrollable  by  will,  must  be  of  possible  human 
torture  the  worst.  And  you  have  seen  it  ? " 

"Yes.  A  man  says,  'I  am  afraid.'  You  say,  'Of 
what?'  He  cannot  tell  you.  'Of  nothing.  I  am 
afraid.'" 

"  Two  things  I  fear,"  cried  St.  Clair,  who  had  come 
in  silently  behind  us — "pain  and  a  ghost." 

"So  glad  to  see  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent.  "Sit 
down.  We  are  discussing  fear,  cowardice,  courage." 

"  Pain  I  fear  most,"  he  said,  "  yet  hardly  know  it. 
And  a  ghost !  Well,  I  know  that.  I  have  seen  one." 

"What?    When?    Where ?"  they  cried. 

"Ask  North,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  it  is  true;  but  first,  before  I  come  in  with 
skeptical  comments,  let  us  hear  your  story.  You  are 
the  only  one  here  who  has  seen  a  ghost." 

"  I  was  in  my  studio  six  months  ago  at  dusk.  I  was 
thinking,  as  I  stood,  of  how  well  my  statue  of  Saul 
looked,  the  light  being  dim,  as  it  would  have  been  in 
his  tent.  I  remembered  then  having  seen  the  statues 
of  the  Louvre  on  a  moonlight  night,  when,  with  the 
curator,  I  lingered  along  the  hall  of  the  great  Venus. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  205 

Some  of  the  fine  lines  of  Sill's  poem  came  back  to  me, 
and,  turning,  I  moved  toward  the  front  room  to  get 
the  book.  At  that  moment  I  became  aware  of  a  black 
figure  on  my  left  side.  It  was  literally  shrouded  from 
head  to  foot ;  even  the  face  and  the  extremities  were 
hidden.  At  first  I  was  surprised,  and  then  by  degrees 
a  deadly  fear  possessed  me.  I  was  motionless,  and  it 
did  not  stir.  I  turned  to  face  it,  but,  as  I  did  so,  it 
moved  so  as  to  keep  relatively  to  me  the  same  position. 
The  whole  act,  if  I  may  call  it  that,  lasted,  I  should 
say,  a  minute.  Then  an  agitation  seized  the  form,  as 
if  it  were  convulsed  under  its  black  cloak,  and  a  faint 
glow,  like  phosphorescence,  ran  along  the  lines  of  the 
drapery,  and  it  was  gone." 

When  he  had  finished  there  was  a  moment  of  si- 
lence. Then  Mrs.  Vincent  exclaimed,  "  Was  that  all  ?  " 

"  A  ghost  in  daytime,"  said  Clayborne.  "  And  the 
comment,  North." 

"  As  he  lost  it,"  said  I,  "  he  felt  a  violent  pain  over 
his  left  eye,  and  this  was  one  of  his  usual  attacks  of 
^  neuralgic  headaches.  He  has  seen  this  phantom  twice 
since.  It  was  merely  the  substitution  of  a  figure  of  a 
cloaked  man  for  the  lines  of  zigzag  light  which  usually 
precede  his  headaches,  and  are  not  very  rare.  One 
man  sees  stars  falling,  one  a  catharine-wheel ;  but  the 
appearance  of  distinct  human  or  other  forms  in  their 
place  is  a  recent  observation.  I  have  known  a  woman 
to  see  her  dead  sister,  until,  after  many  returns  of  the 
V  phantom,  she  ceased  to  be  impressed  by  it." 

"  How  disappointing !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  And  do  you  think  these  facts,"  said  Vincent,  "  ex- 
plain some  ghost- tales  ? " 


206  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

"Yes,  some.  I  have  seen  cases  where  the  headache 
did  not  follow  the  catharine-wheel,  or  the  lines  of 
light,  or  the  specter,  or  was  very  trifling.  And  in 
some  of  these  the  ghost  was  duly  honored  as  a  true 
article  until  subsequent  and  violent  neuralgias  ex-  \/ 
plained  it  as  a  rare  symptom  of  a  common  disorder." 

"  Is  the  disease  itself  understood  ? "  said  Clayborne. 
/    "No  disease  is  understood.    "We  trace  back  the 
threads  a  little  way,  and  find  a  tangle  none  can  un- 
ravel." 

"Then  the  disease  is  as  bad  as  a  ghost — a  real 
ghost,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  I  disbelieve  in  ghosts,  and  do  not  try  at  spiritual 
explanations.  The  material  for  study  of  nature  is 
with  us  always.  We  cannot  experiment  on  ghosts.  I 
know  of  at  least  but  one  hint  in  that  direction." 

"And  that?"  said  Clayborne. 

"  Well,  if  the  ghost  be  a  real  thing  outside  of  us,  you 
will  on  theory  double  it  if  with  a  finger  you  press  one 
eye  out  of  line,  thus,  and  will  then  be  able  to  say,  like 
the  mousquetaire  in  the  'Ingoldsby  Legends,'  'Mon 
Dieu!  Via  deux.'" 

"  Which  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  gaily, "  how  easily 
V/  one  may  become  the  cause  of  duplicity  in  others.    It  is 
a  lesson  in  morals." 

"  Imagine  Hamlet  squinting  at  his  papa ! "  said  St. 
Clair.  "  I  tried  it  on  my  ghost,  but  it  failed.  North 
says  he  was  only  a  monocularly  projected  phantom." 

"That  sounds  reasonably  explanatory,"  growled 
Clayborne,  grimly. 

"  But  what  does  your  phrase  really  mean  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Vincent  of  me. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  207 

"  It  means  that  the  phantom  is  present  only  to  one 
eye  in  these  cases.  To  be  able  to  double  it,  it  must  be 
seen  by  both  eyes  and  be  really  external.  If  it  be  only 
in  the  brain,  and  due  to  brain  disorder,  we  should  not 
be  able  to  squint  it  into  doubleness." 

"  But,"  said  Vincent,  "  it  ought,  in  the  latter  case,  to 
be  present  also  when  the  eyes  are  shut.  How  is  that  ? " 

"  I  am  not  sure  as  to  that,  for  I  have  been  told  by 
one  person  that  her  waking  visions  were  seen  with 
either  eye,  and  with  both,  and  that  they  could  not  be 
doubled  by  squinting,  and  were  lost  when  the  eyes 
were  closed." 

"  And  how  do  you  explain  that  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  yet.  The  patient  was  a  remarkably  in- 
telligent  woman,  but  hysterical,  and  the  very  suspicion 
of  this  puts  one  on  guard,  because  these  people  delight 
to  be  considered  peculiar,  and  their  testimony  must 
always  be  carefully  studied,  and  tested  by  that  of 
others." 

"  Tell  us  what  she  saw,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"It  is  interesting,  but  I  must  cut  it  short.  At 
eleven  daily  a  gigantic  black  man  entered  the  room 
with  a  huge  bass  viol,  set  it  in  a  corner,  and  went  out. 
Presently  a  second  brought  in  an  open  coffin  in  which 
lay  the  patient  herself.  A  little  later  a  host  of  tiny 
men,  all  in  red  medieval  dresses,  swarmed  out  of  the 
cracks  of  the  viol,  ran  to  the  coffin,  planted  ladders 
against  it,  sat  in  hordes  on  its  upper  edges,  and,  lower- 
ing on  the  outside  tiny  buckets,  brought  them  up  full 
of  tinted  sand.  This  they  threw  into  the  coffin  until 
it  reached  the  face  of  the  figure  within.  At  this 
moment  the  patient  began  to  breathe  with  difficulty, 


208  CHARACTERISTICS. 

and  then  of  a  sudden  the  pygmies  emptied  the  coffin 
as  quickly  as  they  had  filled  it,  and  scuttled  away  into 
the  viol,  while  tie  two  blacks  returned  and  took  it 
away  with  the  coffin." 

"What  an  extraordinary  story !  "  said  St.  Clair.  "Can 
you  explain  it  all?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  measure ;  but  it  is  hardly  worth  while. 
And  as  for  ghosts,  the  honest  old-fashioned  ghosts,  does 
any  one  believe  in  them  ? " 

"  I  do,"  said  our  hostess. 

"  And  I  do  not,"  returned  Clayborne. 

"  But  do  you  believe  anything  ? "  cried  St.  Clair. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clayborne ;  "I  believe  there  was  a  past, 
is  a  present,  will  be  a  future.  And  as  to  the  rest — " 

"  Granted  the  past.  As  to  the  future,"  said  St.  Clair, 
"  you  cannot  prove  that  it  will  be.  But  there  is  no 
present,  because  that  implies  rest  of  a  moving  world, 
swinging  round  with  a  moving  solar  system.  It  is  a 
mere  word." 

"  What !  what !  what ! "  cried  Clayborne,  suddenly 
contemplative. 

"  And,  after  all,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  we  have  had 
no  really  curdling  ghost-story.  Only  nineteenth-cent- 
ury explanations." 

"  It  is  dangerous  to  tell  a  ghost-story  nowadays,"  I 
returned.  "A  friend  of  mine  once  told  one  in  print 
out  of  his  wicked  head,  just  for  the  fun  of  it.  It  was 
about  a  little  dead  child  who  rang  up  a  doctor  one 
night,  and  took  him  to  see  her  dying  mother.  Since 
then  he  has  been  the  prey  of  collectors  of  such  mar- 
vels. Psychical  societies  write  to  him;  anxious  be- 
lievers and  disbelievers  in  the  supernatural  assail  him 


CHAKACTEEISTICS.  209 

with  letters.  He  has  written  some  fifty  to  lay  this 
ghost.  How  could  he  predict  a  day  when  he  would 
be  taken  seriously  ? " 

"  I  am  very  sleepy,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  and  it  is 
near  to  twelve.  You  have  not  had  the  smoke  you  are 
all  hungering  after." 

"  Clearly  the  character  doctor  must  wait,"  said  I. 

"  That  may,"  she  replied ;  "  but  not  one  of  you  can 
have  a  cigar  until  I  hear  a  real  ghost-story." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "come  close  to  me,  all  of  you,  and  I 
will  ransom  the  party." 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  delightful ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. 

"  It  is  serious,  Clayborne,"  I  said ;  "  you  might  take 
notes." 

"  Preposterous ! "  he  cried.  "  Might  I  not  have  even 
a  cigarette  at  the  window  ? " 

"  Not  a  whiff,"  said  she ;  "  I  have  heard  that  smoke 
acts  on  ghosts  most  injuriously." 

"  A  ghost-smudge !  "  cried  Vincent.    "  That  is  good." 

"  Suppose  we  get  through  with  this  thing,"  groaned 
the  historian. 

"It  is  brief, "I  returned. 

"  One  morning,  last  autumn,  I  found  on  my  break- 
fast-table a  card, '  Alexander  Gavin  MacAllister,  M.  D., 
Edinburgh.'  I  know  the  man  well.  An  able,  sturdy 
Scot,  given  to  usquebaugh.  He  had  a  large  practice 
among  the  mechanic  classes,  and  frequently  consulted 
me.  If  a  friend  desired  to  annoy  him,  he  had  but  to 
address  him  as  Gavin.  '  Gawin  I  was  creesened,  and 
that 's  my  name.'  He  would  have  fought  on  this,  or 
for  the  honor  of  Scotland,  or  any  man  who  thought 


210  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

Burns  a  lesser  poet  than  Shakspere.  My  servant  said 
he  had  been  waiting  two  hours.  I  said,  <  Show  him  in.' 

"  Ah,  MacAHister,' 1  said, '  sit  down.  I  did  not  want 
you  to  wait.  Talk  away  while  I  eat  my  breakfast ;  or, 
will  you  have  some  I ' 

" '  Nae  bite,  sir,'  and  after  I  had  sent  the  servant 
away,  '  I  'm  in  vara  deep  waters.  I  hae  killed  a  mon 
last  night,  and  I  hae  done  it  of  knowleedge.' 

"  I  looked  at  him  curiously.  Eyes,  hair,  beard,  skin, 
were  all  of  various  tints  of  red.  All  '  burned  a  burn- 
ing flame  together.'  Also  he  was  wet  with  the  sweat 
of  terror. 

" '  Let  me  hear/  I  said.     <  A  little  whisky  ? ' 

" '  Nae  drap,  sir.  I  hae  a  deep  fear  that 's  the  witeh 
seduced  me.  I  'm  of  opeenion  that  wheesky  must  hae 
petticoats,  there 's  such  an  abidin'  leaven  of  meeschief 
in  her  soceeiety.  I  maun  try  to  tell  you,  but  I  'm 
nigher  prayin'  than  talkin'.  Ghosts  and  warlocks  are 
nae  quietin'  company.' 

" '  Go  on,'  I  said. 

" <  Dinna  ye  ken  Mr.  Gillespie,  the  banker  1' 

" '  Yes  j  I  see  that  it  was  reported  that  he  died  in 
San  Francisco  two  days  ago.' 

" '  It  is  so  related.    But  I  maun  tell  ye  the  hale  case.' 

"'Goon.' 

" '  Last  night  I  hae  reason  to  suspect  that  I  maun 
hae  been  takin'  bad  wheesky.  It  was  nae  the  honest 
barley ;  I  blame  the  rye.  It 's  a  warnin'  to  me  for  life, 
if  the  gude  Lord  spares  me  to  reform.  Ye  see,  yes- 
treen, after  the  Thistle  Society,  I  went  to  the  St. 
Andrew's  dinner.  By  ill  fortune  Mr.  McGillivray  sat 
opposite  to  me.  Aiblins  ye  ken  Mr.  McGillivray.  The 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  211 

mon  has  nae  havin's,  which  is  to  say  manners.  He 
made  a  very  opprobrious  remark  concernin'  the  True 
Kirk,  By  reason  of  too  mony  veenous  counselors,  I 
had  na  the  recht  word  to  han'.  And  thinkin'  he  might 
na  understond  me  correctly  if  I  bided  too  long,  I  cast 
a  bannock  at  his  foul  face.  A  gude  bittie  haggis  he 
threw  at  me.  I  wad  na  hae  dune  that  to  a  dog.  The 
beast  has  nae  senteement  of  nationality  (it 's  but  a 
Lowlander  he  is,  after  a').  A  watermelon  he  got  for 
answer  to  his  remark.  It  broke  on  his  bald  head,  and 
the  sinner  went  doun  in  gore,  or  the  like  of  it,  after 
the  manner  of  the  mon  Sisera.  And  that  terminated 
the  conversation  vara  sateesf actorily. 

" '  The  cheerman  made  a  point  of  order  that  I,  Alex- 
ander MacAllister,  was  drunk,  and  I  was  over-per- 
suaded by  five  men  to  gae  hame.  When  I  got  in,  there 
on  my  slate  was  a  message  to  go  at  once  to  veesit  Mr. 
Gillespie,  at  No.  9  St.  Peter's  Place.  Vara  ill,  it  said. 

"  '  Ye  ken  the  mon's  deid.  I  dinna  ken  why  I  went, 
but  the  next  I  remember  I  was  at  his  door.  There 
were  lichts  in  the  house,  and  a  braw  hussy  of  a  maid 
let  me  in.  Preesently  I  was  in  a  bedroom,  and  there 
sat  Mr.  Gillespie,  vara  white,  but  dressed. 

"  ' "  Tak'  a  seat,  Gawin,"  he  said,  and  I  sat  doun. 

" '  Then  he  said,  "  Gawin,  yer  owin'  me  a  year's 
reent." 

"  < "  Oh,  aye,"  I  said. 

"  * "  I  am  deid,"  said  he,  "  and  the  executors  will  be 
hard.  Now,  Gawin,  I  want  you  to  gie  me  a  gude  dose 
of  poison." 

" ' "  But  you  're  deid  now,"  I  said,  and  my  hair  stood 
up  like  flax  stubble,  that  stiff  with  fear. 


212  CHARACTERISTICS. 

" ' "  I  was  a  vara  eccentric  mon  in  the  fleesh,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  'm  uae  less  in  the  speerit.  It  has  occurred 
to  me,  Gawin,  an  I  were  weel  poisoned  I  might  die  as 
a  ghaist,  and  get  alive  again.  Dinna  ye  see  the  point, 
mon  ? " 

" '  I  said,  "  That  is  aye  gude  logic,"  and  ye  ken  he 
was  a  vara  ingenious  creature.  "  But  war  would  be 
my  neck  for  takin'  the  life  of  a  mon  ? " 

" ' "  I  'm  nae  a  mon,  Gawin,"  he  said ;  "  I  'm  a  ghaist, 
and  it 's  only  a  change  of  state  I  'm  cravin'.  And 
there 's  the  reent.  But  ye  maun  mak'  haste,  or  I  will 
call  in  Doctor  O'Beirne." 

" ' «  Gude  Lord !  "  I  said,  "  ye  canna  mean  that,  Mr. 
Gillespie.  There  's  a  hantle  of  deaths  at  yon  mon's 
door." 

« i  it  Then  he  »s  the  practitioner  for  me.  I  canna  be 
waur.  My  time 's  short ;  I  was  streakit  yestreen,  and 
to-morrow  I  shall  be  put  awa'  in  the  ground.  And 
there 's  the  reent." 

" ' "  Wull  ye  f  orgie  me  the  arrears  ?  "  I  said. 

"'"Iwull." 

" l  So  I  pulled  out  my  little  pocket-case,  and  mixed 
him  enough  strychnia  to  kill  the  ghaist  of  a  witch's  cat. 
He  took  it  doun  wi'  a  gulp. 

"'"It's  rather  constreengent,"  he  said,  and  yon 
were  his  vara  last  words ;  and  then  he  fell  doun  in  a 
spawsm,  and  tied  himself  into  bow-knots,  and  yelled 
— O  Lord !  sir.  I  fled  like  Tarn  O'Shanter,  and  here  I 
am.  I  hae  killed  a  mon.' 

" '  And  then  you  went  home  ? ' 

"'That  may  be,  sir.  When  I  cam'  to  full  knowl- 
eedge  of  Alexander  MacAUister  I  was  seated  on  the 


CHAKACTEKISTICS.  213 

step  of  my  door  in  the  snaw.  I  went  in,  and —  will  ye 
creedit  it? — the  slate  was  clean.  But  that  maim  be 
the  way  wi'  ghaist-writin'.  It 's  nae  abidin'.' 

" l  But  the  man  is  alive,  Grawin.  There  is  a  telegram 
in  the  morning  papers  to  say  that  the  report  of  his 
death  was  a  mistake.  He  had  a  faint  spell  or  a  trance 
— something  of  the  kind.  He  will  be  at  home  next 
week.  You  must  have  been  very  drunk,  Grawin.' 

" '  I  dinna  ken.  And  there  's  the  reent,  and  I  saw 
it.  Sir,  a  ghaist  in  spawsms.  Nae,  nae ;  it  was  nae 
a  coeencidence.  Dinna  ye  think,  sir,  considerin'  the 
service,  a  gude  bill  for  the  reent  and  arrears  would 
be  but  just?' 

" '  Certainly/  I  said ;  '  he  ought  to  pay.' 

" '  I  hae  muckle  doubt  as  to  the  matter.  If  he  f  or- 
gies me  the  moneys,  I  '11  stond  by  the  Kirk  against 
the  whole  clan  of  the  McGillivrays  to  the  mortal  end 
of  my  days.  Might  I  hae  a  drop  o'  wheesky?  No 
matter  what  kind.  I  '11  neever  blaspheme  against  the 
rye  again — there's  waur  things.'" 

"  Delightful ! "  cried  Mrs. Vincent.  "You have  earned 
your  cigar,"  and  we  broke  up  amidst  laughter  in  which 
even  Clayborne  joined. 


XV. 


JE  met  by  agreement  at  Vincent's  a 
week  later.  When  I  came  in  St. 
Clair  was  talking  of  my  story. 

"The  possibilities  of  the  ghost- 
tales  are  pretty  well  worked  out,"  he 
said,  "  but  Owen's  was  really  fresh." 
"  The  logical  character  of  the  old  Scot  in  your  story 
was  past  praise,"  said  Clayborne. 

"  And  what  about  the  arrears  ? "  remarked  Vincent. 
"  I  should  like  to  be  employed  to  bring  suit  for  them." 
"Oh,  I  then  and  there  made  him  write  the  bill 
against  Mr.  Gillespie's  ghost.  The  old  banker  was 
delighted  when  I  told  him  the  story ;  he  admitted  the 
obligation,  dead  or  alive,  he  said,  and  he  was  as  good 
as  his  word." 

"That  ends  it  neatly,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.     "And 
now  we  must  really  have  the  character  doctor." 
I  went  on  to  read  it,  saying : 

"  The  friend  who  gave  me,  at  my  desire,  the  notes 
of  a  part  of  a  rather  odd  life  is  now  abroad.  I  have 
woven  what  I  knew  of  him  into  his  own  account  of 
himself,  and  have  tried  to  preserve  the  peculiar  abrupt- 
ness of  his  style." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  215 


THE  CHAEACTEE  DOCTOE. 

AT  the  age  of  twenty-three  I  was  an  orphan.  I  was 
independent  as  to  means,  and  by  profession  a  doctor 

of  medicine.  I  began  to  practise  in  L ,  and,  as  I 

obtained  only  by  slow  degrees  the  patients  I  needed 
rather  than  wanted,  I  found  increasing  difficulties.  If 
a  case  were  painful,  I  suffered  too.  If  it  ended  ill,  I 
was  tormented  by  self-reproaches.  In  a  word,  I  was 
too  sensitive  to  be  of  use.  Weak  or  hysterical  women 
liked  me  and  my  too  ready  show  of  sympathy.  It 
was,  in  fact,  real,  and  quite  too  real  for  my  good  or 
my  comfort.  Moreover,  I  hated  to  be  told  that  I  had 
so  much  sympathy.  It  is  a  quality  to  use  with  wis- 
dom. I  could  not  control  it.  It  was  valuable  to  some 
patients ;  it  was  useless  to  many,  or  even  did  harm. 
It  made  me  anxious  when  my  mind  told  me  there  was 
no  need  to  be  anxious.  I  was,  in  fact,  too  intensely 
troubled  at  times  over  a  child  or  a  young  mother 
to  be  efficient.  Decided  or  pain-giving  treatment  I 
shrank  from  using.  I  was  inclined  to  gloomy  prog- 
nostications, and  this  weakened  my  capacity  to  do 
good.  And  yet  I  was  a  conscientious  man,  and  eager 
to  do  what  was  right.  I  have,  however,  observed  that 
sanguine  men,  or  men  who  deliberately  and  constantly 
*  predict  relief  or  cure,  do  best.  If  failure  comes,  it  ex- 
plains itself  or  may  be  explained.  I  knew  once  a  foxy 
old  country  doctor,  who  said  to  me,  "  Hide  your  inde- 
cisions ;  tell  folks  they  will  get  well ;  tell  their  friends 
your  doubts  afterward."  This  may  be  one  way  of 
practising  a  profession ;  it  was  not  mine. 

A  few  years  of  practice  wore  me  out,  and  yet  I  liked 
15 


216  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

it  in  a  way,  and  best  of  all  the  infinite  varieties  of  life 
and  character  laid  open  to  one's  view.  At  last  I  con- 
sulted Professor  N .  "And  you  feel,"  he  said, 

"more  and  more  the  troubles  and  pain  of  your 
patients?  To  feel  too  sharply  is  not  rare,  and  not 
bad  for  the  young.  Sympathy  should  harden  by  re- 
peated blows  into  the  tempered  steel  of  usefulness, 
which  has  values  in  proportion  to  what  it  has  borne ; 
otherwise  it  and  you  are  useless.  Get  out  of  our  pro- 
fession." And  I  did.  I  accepted  the  chair  of  psychol- 
ogy at  B University,  and  plunged  with  joy  into 

mere  study.  I  soon  found  a  want.  The  study  of  man 
in  books  and  through  self -observation  became  weari- 
some. The  study  of  myself  in  the  mirror  of  myself 
made  me  morbid.  I  might  have  known  it  would. 
There  may  be  some  who  can  do  this.  Autopsycholog- 
ical  study  seemed  to  me  profitless.  Can  a  man  see  his 
own  eyes  move  in  a  mirror  ?  Also  the  single  man  is 
useless  as  a  field  of  examination.  You  recall  my  lect- 
ure on  "  Genera  and  Species  of  Mind,"  and  on  "  Varie- 
ties of  the  Same."  After  all,  it  appeared  to  me  that 
what  I  wanted  was  to  collect  notes  of  characters,  good, 
bad,  and  neutral,  if  there  be  such ;  to  study  motives, 
large  and  small,  and  to  collate  them  with  the  history 
of  men  intellectually  regarded,  and  to  see,  also,  how 
the  moral  nature  modifies  the  mental  product,  and  the 
reverse.  Out  of  all  this  I  must  get  some  good  for 
others.  This  my  nature  made  imperative.  I  obtained 
a  long  holiday,  which  it  was  supposed  I  would  spend 
in  Germany  with  Herr  Valzenberg,  whose  study  of  the 
diameters  of  the  nerve-cells  in  relation  to  criminal  ten- 
dencies has  attracted  so  much  notice. 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  217 

Nothing  was  further  from  my  intention.  I  left 

B in  February,  1863,  and  a  week  later  had  an 

office  in  quiet  West  street  in  the  city  of  Baypoint.  I 
put  on  my  door  "Sylvian  West,  Character  Doctor." 
You  will  see  that  I  changed  my  name.  For  this  I  had 
good  reasons.  I  meant  to  be  another  man  for  the 
time.  I  believed  that  change  of  name  would  mentally 
assist  me  to  this,  and  I  had  no  desire  to  be  called  insane 
because  I  chose  to  strike  out  a  novel  method  of  study, 
with  which  I  meant  to  combine  immediate  utility. 

During  my  office-hours  I  sat  for  a  while  near  my 
window  to  observe  the  effect  of  my  business-sign.  It 
was  a  rather  pleasant  study.  The  street  was  a  quiet 
byway,  but  morning  and  evening  many  people  of  all 
classes  passed  through  it.  Most  of  them  went  by  with 
a  passing  glance  of  amusement  or  vague  curiosity; 
others  paused  in  wonder,  went  on,  looked  back,  and 
again  went  on.  Some  crossed  the  street  to  make  sure 
they  had  rightly  read  my  sign. 

On  the  fourth  day  a  young  man  crossed  the  street, 
rang  the  bell,  and  was  shown  into  my  office.  I  recog- 
nized the  type  at  once.  He  was  very  sprucely  dressed, 
was  not  over-clean  as  to  his  hands,  and  in  his  side- 
pocket  I  saw  the  top  of  a  note-book.  He  sat  down  as 
I  rose  from  my  seat  at  the  window. 

"Dr.  West?  "he  said. 

"  Yes.    You  are  a  reporter  ?  * 

"  I  am.    How  did  you  guess  that  ? " 

"  It  is  simple.  A  note-book  and  pencil,  soiled  fin- 
gers, and,  also — " 

"Now  that  's  rather  smart,"  he  broke  in.  "And 
what  else  ?  " 


218  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Nothing." 

"  Well,  you  're  right  anyway.  I  'm  the  social  re- 
porter for  the  <  Standard.' " 

"  A  collector  of  garbage  to  manure  with  fools'  vani- 
ties the  devil's  farms,"  I  said.  "  You  may  not  be  bad 
yourself,  but  you  are  part  of  a  bad  system.  I  do  not 
want  you."  On  this  his  look  of  alert  smartness  sud- 
denly faded. 

He  did  not  lose  his  temper,  but  replied  in  a  tone  of 
some  thoughtf  ulness : 

"  A  man  must  make  a  living." 

"  I  wish,"  I  said,  "  there  was  such  a  phrase  as  make 
a  dying.  That 's  what  you  are  making.  Go  your  way ; 
mine  is  an  honest  business." 

"But  the  public  are  interested.  The  thing  is  un- 
usual. I  should  like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions." 

"As  man  to  man  let  me  ask  you  one.  Are  you 
y  never  ashamed  of  yourself  ? " 

He  flushed  a  little.     "  Well,  sometimes.    I  hate  it." 

"  Then  go  and  sin  no  more,"  I  said,  rising.  "  Good 
morning."  At  this  he  too  rose,  replaced  the  note-book 
he  had  drawn  from  his  pocket,  and,  urging  me  no 
further,  went  out  with  a  simple  "  Good  morning."  He 
must  be  young  at  the  business,  I  reflected,  and  per- 
haps I  may  have  done  him  good.  I  was  undeceived 
two  days  later  when  I  read  in  the  "  Standard  " : 

GREAT  SENSATION  ON  WEST  STREET. 

Crowds  assembled  about  a  curious  sign : 
8YLVIAN  WEST, 

CHARACTER    DOCTOR. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  219 

•     . 

Oar  reporter  was  courteously  received  by  Dr.  West,  who  said 
he  was  glad  in  the  interest  of  the  public  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions. The  interview  was  as  follows : 

"  Yes ;  I  am  a  character  doctor.  My  business  is  to  furnish 
characters  to  those  who  need  them.  Also  I  attend  to  sick  char- 
acters. Sometimes  whole  families  consult  me  as  to  the  amend- 
ment and  reconstruction  of  conflicting  characters.  Yes ;  I  expect 
to  have  a  character  hospital,  with  wards  for  jealousy,  anger, 
folly." 

Then  came  details  of  my  life.  How  I  was  born  in 
Kamchatka,  etc.  I  let  the  paper  fall  in  dismay.  It 
was  the  dull  season,  and  there  was  much  more  of  it. 
The  man's  trade-habit  had  been  too  much  for  him.  I 
had  more  of  them,  but  I  gave  up  advising,  and  simply 
said  that  I  would  not  answer.  Then  they  interviewed 
my  maid,  and,  at  last,  the  cook  at  the  back  gate.  It 
was  almost  as  bad  as  the  case  of  my  friend  who  found 
a  reporter  under  his  table  just  before  a  dinner  he  was 
to  give  to  a  stranger  of  high  position.  I  made  a  note 
upon  the  influence  of  business  upon  character.  In  a 
few  days  the  plague  abated. 

Very  soon  my  harvest  began.  At  first  I  had  an  influx 
of  Biddies,  who  each  wanted  a  character.  It  seemed 
hard  to  make  the  public  comprehend  my  purpose. 

One  afternoon  about  five  I  was  told  that  some  one 
wished  to  see  me,  and,  leaving  the  up-stairs  room  I 
reserved  for  my  books,  went  down  to  the  office.  On 
the  lounge  lay  a  man  about  twenty,  of  a  death-like 
pallor.  He  sprang  up  as  I  came  in,  staggered,  and  fell 
back.  I  saw  that  he  was  ill,  and  called  to  the  maid 
to  bring  wine,  which  he  took  eagerly.  I  said,  "  When 
did  you  last  eat  ? " 

"At  seven  to-day."    Upon  this  I  went  out  and 


220  CHAEACTEEISTICS. 

came  back  with  food.  "  Eat,"  I  said.  By  and  by  he 
rose,  saying :  "I  thank  you.  I  came  to  see  you — for 
— but  now  I  must  tell  you  all.  I  left  the  penitentiary 
to-day.  I  got  a  year  for  stealing  from  my  employer. 
A  woman  was  the  cause.  Ah,  three  months  would 
have  done.  When  I  got  out  I  walked  and  walked ;  I 
thought  I  could  walk  forever,  and  at  the  corners  the 
wind  was  in  my  face,  sir.  It  was  like  heaven.  Of  a 
sudden  I  grew  weak,  and,  seeing  your  sign,  I  came  in. 
Now  you  know  all.  I  fancy  you  '11  think  I  certainly 
do  need  a  character." 

"  Yes.    Where  are  you  going  ? " 

"To  B ,  in  Indiana.  I  have  my  good-service 

money.  I  will  go  to  L ,  and  then  walk.  I  am  an 

Englishman.  I  have  no  friends  here.  I  was  once  in 
B a  little  while." 

"Now  for  my  advice.  You  cannot  walk.  Here, 

this  will  take  you  to  B .  You  will  get  on,  I  think. 

Pay  me  some  day.  Be  tender  to  the  wrong-doer  in 
days  to  come,  and  marry  early — a  good  woman,  not 
a  fool ;  mind  that.  Solomon's  experience  was  large, 
and,  as  you  may  remember,  he  gave  pretty  much  the 
same  advice." 

He  looked  at  me,  at  the  money,  and  began  to  cry. 

"Don't,"  I  said.  "I  never  could  stand  that,"  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  gone. 
I  ought  to  add  that  he  did  greatly  prosper,  and  is 
to-day  an  esteemed  citizen  with  many  happy  children. 
About  a  week  later  a  lad  of  seventeen  called  on  me. 
He  was  well  dressed  and  well  bred.  As  he  faced  me 
I  saw  that  he  looked  troubled,  and  that  he  hesitated. 

"Well,"  I  said. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  221 

"You  are  a  character  doctor?" 

"  Yes.    What  can  I  do  for  you  ?;» 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  don't  know  why  I  came  here  at 
all.  Do  I  look  like  a  bad  fellow  ? "  And  he  regarded 
me  with  eyes  of  honest  calmness. 

"No;  you  are  not  bad." 

"  Maybe  1 7m  a  fool.  I  saw  in  the  paper  that  you 
could  tell  if  a  man  was  bad,  and  why  he  was  bad." 

"  Oh,  hang  the  papers !     What  is  it  ? " 

"Do  you  think,  sir,  a  fellow  could  steal  and  not 
know  he  did  it  ? " 

"  Yes.     Suppose  you  tell  me  your  story." 

Always  people  have  been  too  ready  to  confess  things 
to  me ;  it  was  one  of  the  many  torments  of  my  life  as 
a  doctor. 

"Well,  suppose  a  fellow  had  the  key  of  a  safe  in 
charge,  and  something  was  missing.  Could  any  one 
have  taken  it  but  him  ? " 

I  replied :  "  You  are  only  half  trusting  me.  Were 
I  you  I  would  be  quite  frank,  or  say  nothing — at 
least  to  me." 

There  was  a  certain  sweetness  in  the  young  man's 
face  as  he  looked  up  at  me  and  said,  "  Well,  I  know 
about  doctors;  they  are  like  priests — but — " 

"  I  am  a  physician." 

"  Must  I  tell  you  my  name  ? " 

"  No ;  merely  what  happened." 

"Well,  father  went  out  of  town  a  month  ago,  and 
left  with  me  the  key  of  the  safe  in  his  library — in  our 
own  house,  you  know.  I  did  not  want  it,  but  my  elder 
brother  is  ill  in  bed,  and  there  was  no  one  else.  The 
day  father  left  he  showed  me  where  all  the  papers 


222  CHARACTERISTICS. 

were,  in  case  he  wired  for  any  of  them,  and  also 
showed  me  a  necklace  of  emeralds  my  aunt — my 
au-nt, — oh,  I  came  awfully  near  telling  her  name, — 
my  aunt  left  in  his  care,  because  she  's  in  Europe. 
That  safe  kept  me  anxious.  Yes,  sir ;  it  seems  silly, 
but  my  mind  was  on  it,  and  I  am  just  nearly  through 
college,  and  I  never  have  had  any  cares.  Of  course 
it  wore  off  by  degrees,  and  then  father  came  back. 
Indeed,  sir,  he  was  worse  troubled  than  I,  but  I  think 
I  have  been  nearly  crazy.  I  mean  the  necklace  was 
gone.  Why,  I  heard  mother  tell  father  I  was  very 
young  and  he  must  forgive  me ;  but  she  sits  in  her 
room  and  rocks  and  rocks,  and  takes  valerian.  And 
now  there  is  a  detective,  and  he  searches  the  house, 
and  the  servants  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  thief,  and 
that  scoundrel  he  talked  to  me  yesterday  and  guessed 
I  'd  best  own  up." 

" And  is  that  all?" 

"No,  sir;  I— they  all  try  not  to  think  I  did  it, 
and  they  believe  I  did.  I  think  I  must  have  done  it. 
I  was  wondering  when  it  was.  If  I  only  knew  what  I 
did  with  it !  Every  one  thinks  I  took  it.  But  where 
is  it  ?  How  can  I  confess  it  ?  I  am  not  sure." 

At  this  he  rose  and  moved  about,  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  suddenly  came  back,  saying,  "By 
George !  there  's  that  detective." 

"Sit  down,"  I  said.  "You  need  not  tell  me  you 
have  been  a  good  lad  or  worked  at  school." 

"  I  'm  in  the  honor  list,  and  I  'm  captain  of  the 
eleven,"  he  said,  with  sorrowful  pride,  "  and  to  think — 
but  I  did  it.  It 's  so." 

"Hush!"  I   returned.     "The  man  who    slanders 


CHARACTERISTICS.  223 

himself  is  wicked  or  weak.  You  are  only  weak,  and 
only  that  just  now.  You  never  did  this  act.  I  say 
so.  If  a  dozen  people  say  to  a  man  daily,  '  You  are 
going  to  be  ill/  that  at  last  affects  the  most  whole- 
some. If  all  you  love  tell  you  in  words,  looks,  and 
ways  that  you  have  been  a  thief,  at  last  a  man  doubts 
the  evidence  of  his  own  memory  and  conscience,  and 
loses  his  mental  equilibrium,  and  joins  the  majority 
against  himself.  Then  he  is  on  the  verge  of  becom- 
ing insane.  Now,  really,  are  all  your  people  of  one 
opinion  ? " 

"  No ;  my  sister  Helen  she  just  laughs  at  the  whole 
thing.  I  mean  when  she  don't  cry." 

"  Sister  Helen  has  some  sense,  I  should  say.  And 
now  listen.  Go  and  play  cricket  to-day.  Settle  down 
to  your  work ;  you  have  neglected  it.  Mind,  these  are 
prescriptions.  It  will  come  right.  I  know  you  for  an 
honest  gentleman ;  now  hurry  out  of  the  door  and  de- 
tect your  detective.  Tell  him  you  have  told  me  all, 
and  come  back  to-morrow.  And  your  name,  please  ? " 

He  hesitated,  and  said,  "  Frederick  Winslow." 

"  And  mind,  make  a  good  score  at  cricket,  and  leave 
it  all  to  me." 

" Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  must  try,  sir.  I — what 
is  your  charge  ? " 

"Let  that  rest  now.  When  you  go  the  detective 
will  visit  me.  It  is  our  turn  now." 

A  minute  later,  as  I  expected,  the  detective  walked 
in.  "  Mr.  Winslow,"  he  said,  "  says  he  has  told  you  all. 
I  am  Mr.  Diggles.  Here 's  my  card."  It  bore  a  large 
eye  in  the  center,  and  over  it,  "  John  Diggles,  Confi- 
dential Detective  Agency." 


224  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

"  Glad  lie  owned  up.  Pretty  smart  boy,  but  they 
gets  worried  into  lettin'  out  at  last."  All  this  rather 
volubly. 

"  Sit  down,"  I  said.  "  You  believe  that  young  fel- 
low stole  an  emerald  necklace  ? " 

"  Why,  who  else  could  have  done  it  ? a 

u  There  is  a  reason  for  crime,  usually  ? " 

"  Yes  5  I  guess  there  's  always  reason  for  wanting 
other  folks'  things.  But  he  has  told  you  he  took  it  f " 

"  No ;  and  if  he  had,  in  the  state  he  is  in  now,  I 
should  not  have  believed  him." 

"Why?    Not  believe  him !    Why  not ?" 

"  Because  you  took  it  yourself." 

At  this  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed,  "  I  did 
not  come  here  to  be  insulted," 

I  was  about  to  explain  that  the  probability  of  his 
being  the  thief  was  to  me  not  less  than  of  the  necklace 
having  been  stolen  by  my  young  captain  of  the  cricket 
eleven,  but  something  in  the  sudden  flush  and  rage  of 
a  man  living  always  in  familiar  nearness  to  crime  gave 
me  reason  to  hesitate.  Crime  for  these  men  loses  its 
horror,  and  becomes  a  mere  enemy  to  be  technically 
dealt  with.  It  troubles  them  as  little  as  deceit  does 
the  soldier,  who  plays  the  game  of  war.  Fraud  is  his 
weapon.  I  returned  quickly :  "  What  has  been  your 
life  compared  to  this  boy's?  His  has  been  honest, 
dutiful,  and  correct.  And  yours?  What  have  you 
been?" 

The  man  was  singularly  bewildered,  and  said  noth- 
ing. I  went  on :  "  Who  is  most  likely  to  be  the  thief, 
you  or  he  ?  You  had  best  go  home  and  say  the  prayer 
of  a  wiser  man — '  God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  fooL' " 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  225 

"  I  want  to  know  what  that  boy  told  you." 

"That  you  will  never  know.  Send  me  that  lad's 
father." 

"I  won't  do  it." 

"  Take  care  how  you  act  in  this  case." 

«  You  called  me  a  thief." 

"I  did." 

"Well,  then,  you  look  out,  that  >s  all."  He  was 
clearly  foolish,  as  well  as  angry.  "You  think  I  stole 
necklace.  That's  the  kind  of  character  doctor 
you  are ! " 

"  I  said  you  were  a  thief.  And  now  it  is  a  man's 
character,  his  honor,  you  are  helping  to  steal,  because 
you  have  no  sense,  and  come  to  a  point  on  any  obvious 
fact." 

"Oh,  that 'sail,  is  it?" 

The  Winslows  were  well-known  people,  and  I  read- 
ily found  Mr.  Winslow.  He  was  a  slow,  precise,  over- 
accurate  man  of  sixty.  No  imagination;  horizons 

ited ;  undergoing  in  advance  physical,  moral,  and 
mental  ossification.  Of  course,  as  a  character  doctor,  I 
was  to  him  a  queer,  extra-social  animal.  I  soon  found 
that  I  must  tell  him  my  whole  story. 

His  astonishment  was  as  large  as  his  nature  let  it 
be ;  but  as  he  knew  my  people,  and  conceded  to  the 
class  to  which  we  belonged  larger  privileges  than  he 
would  admit  for  others,  I  was  able  to  win  his  confi- 
dence. 

I  then  explained  to  him  my  conviction  as  to  his 
son's  innocence. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  he  replied,  "  that  is  so.  But,  then, 
the  facts," — and  he  began  elaborately  to  describe 


lim 
V  me 


226  CHAKACTEBISTICS. 

them,  ending  with,  "  Of  course  it  was  n't  he,  but  who 
was  it?" 

I  told  him  that  the  boy  was  being  goaded  by  hints, 
looks,  doubts,  half -belief  s,  and  the  detective's  folly  into 
a  form  of  mental  disorder  which  would  end  in  the 
avowal  of  what  he  had  never  done. 

He  was  puzzled  and  alarmed,  but,  on  careful  exam- 
ination, nothing  new  came  out.  On  my  casually  ask- 
ing for  his  sick  son,  he  said  that  he  was  an  invalid 
^/  unable  to  walk ;  had  neurasthenia,  and  now,  refusing 
to  see  doctors,  remained  in  bed.  I  was  nearly  at  the 
end  of  my  resources ;  I  asked  if  I  might  see  him,  for, 
after  our  talk,  I  had  so  won  my  way  that  I  was  al- 
lowed to  examine  the  safe,  and  to  talk  with  the  mother 
and  daughter. 

Mr.  Winslow  said :  "  Miss  Winslow  will  take  you  up. 
He  dislikes  me  to  come  in.  He  says  my  boots  creak. 
V/  He  says  some  people's  boots  always  creak." 

Miss  Helen  went  up  with  me.  I  was  on  her  side,  as 
she  knew.  She  said  to  me :  "  He  may  refuse  to  see 
you.  Why  do  you  want  to  see  him  ? " 

"  Because,"  I  said,  "  we  are  in  the  tangle  of  a  mys- 
tery, and  he  too  is  rather  mysterious." 

She  laughed.  "I  see."  Clearly  she  had  imagina- 
tive possibilities,  and  I  like  that. 

I  said,  "  I  will  go  in  alone." 

"  I  would,"  she  returned,  firmly. 

The  room  was  in  half  light.  I  said  as  I  went  in  : 
"  Mr.  Winslow,  I  am  a  physician.  Your  father  desires 
me  to  see  you.  My  name  is  West.  Let  me  open  the 
windows." 

"  Oh,  if  I  must,  I  must,"  he  said,  peevishly. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  227 

The  flood  of  light  showed  me  a  thin,  apathetic  man 
of  thirty.  I  sat  down. 

"  Open  your  eyes."  He  obeyed.  Then  I  went  care- 
fully into  his  case,  and  at  the  close  he  said : 

"  No,  I  can't  walk  or  read  j  but  I  was  better  until 
this  necklace  business.  Every  one  bothers  about  it. 

Aunt  L says  it  is  for  my  wife ;  and  so  I  say,  it  is 

mine,  and  if  I  don't  care,  who  else  need  care  ? " 

As  I  rose  to  go  he  said :  "  My  legs  hurt  me.  Now 
you  are  here,  just  look  at  them." 

I  did  so.  There  were  on  each  leg  bruises  in  the 
same  place,  below  the  knees.  Hesitating,  I  went  on 
to  look  at  the  feet.  Then  I  said:  "That  will  do. 
What  fire  do  you  burn  ?  Oh,  soft  coal,  I  see.  I  will 
think  it  over,  and  see  you  again."  Down-stairs  I  found 
Mr.  Winslow. 

"  Well  ? "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Your  son  says  he  cannot  walk.  On  his  soles  are 
marks  of  the  black  from  the  fire.  On  his  legs  are 
two  bruises ;  one  has  a  slight  break  of  the  skin. 
Either  he  is  untruthful,  or  he  walks  in  his  sleep." 

"  He  did  as  a  boy." 

The  result  was  that  I  had  a  watch  set  on  the  invalid. 
After  three  nights  he  rose,  lighted  his  candle,  walked 
into  his  brother's  room,  and  with  curious  care  searched 
his  clothes'  pockets.  At  last  he  took  a  bundle  of  keys 
from  one  of  them,  and  went  quietly  down-stairs  to  the 
/  safe.  He  was  quite  unconscious  of  being  watched,  and 
foolishly  but  deliberately  tried  key  after  key,  small  or 
large,  and  at  last  went  back  to  his  bed,  dropping  the 
keys  on  the  way. 

When  I  was  told  of  all  this,  I  was  greatly  puzzled, 


228  CHARACTERISTICS. 

and  regretted  that  the  key  of  the  safe  had  not  been 
left  where  he  could  get  it.  Saying  that  I  was  still 
better  satisfied  of  my  young  friend's  innocence,  I  went 
away,  and  before  going  home  called  at  the  steamer 
agency  to  engage  passage  for  the  coming  autumn. 
As  I  entered  I  saw  my  detective  go  out  of  another 
door.  After  settling  for  my  berth,  I  asked  if  Mr. 
Diggles  was  going  to  Europe.  The  clerk  said, 
"Who?" 

I  replied,  "  The  man  who  just  went  out." 

"Name  of  Stimpson,"  said  the  clerk.  "He  sails 
next  week. 

The  next  day  I  sent  for  the  man.     He  came  early. 

"  Any  news  ? "  he  said,  abruptly. 

"No;  I  merely  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question  or 
two." 

"  All  right.     Go  ahead."    He  exhibited  no  hostility. 

"  When  did  you  search  the  safe  ? " 

"The  third  day  after  Mr.  Winslow  came  home." 

"You  did  it  thoroughly?" 

"I  did.  Mr.  Winslow  he  had  n't  unrolled  all  the 
bundles.  He  said  it  was  no  use,  they  was  only  deeds 
and  such.  I  done  it  thorough." 

"  And  are  you  not  at  the  end  of  your  resources  ?  " 

"No,  sir.  By  this  day  month  we  shall  have  him. 
He  is  a  boy,  and  he  '11  try  to  sell  or  pawn  it.  I  've  got 
an  eye  on  him." 

"  But  you  sail  next  week."  The  man  suddenly  tilted 
back  his  chair,  and  in  a  certain  loosening  of  his  feat- 
ures I  saw  alarm  and  astonishment 

"I — yes — business  abroad." 

"  Name  of  Stimpson  ? "  I  urged.    As  I  spoke  I  rose. 


CHARACTERISTICS.  229 

"  Look  here/'  I  said,  "  to-morrow  you  will  go  to  the 
house  and  ask  leave  to  search  that  safe.  The  neck- 
lace will  be  found  the  day  after  in  a  bundle  of  deeds." 

"  Are  you  crazy  1 " 

"  No  j  but  you  will  be,  and  worse,  if  that  necklace 
is  not  found.  Now,  I  know,  and  you  have  one  day, 
and  no  more.  Remember,  I  know.  It  is  this  or  ruin, 
and  you  are  watched." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  and  then  went  out  with- 
out a  word,  and  did  precisely  what  I  had  ordered  him 
to  do. 

"  And  the  necklace  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Was  found  in  a  roll  of  deeds.  My  friend  goes  on 
to  say  that  his  theory  was  that  the  sleep-walker  took 
the  key,  opened  the  safe,  and — who  can  say  why? — 
removed  the  necklace  from  its  case,  and  put  it  inside 
a  roll  of  old  papers.  On  the  detective's  more  thorough 
search  at  his  first  inspection,  he  found  it,  and  easily 
contrived  to  pocket  it." 

"  Meanwhile,  we  were  set  astray  by  the  elder  broth- 
er's somnambulism,  which,  I  confess,  misled  me  in  part. 
The  rest  explains  itself. 

"  The  notes  of  the  cases  which  follow  are  the  last 
I  shall  read  to  you,  although  there  are  others  as 
interesting.  I  find  he  has  classified  them  under  head- 
ings." 

Case  31  consults  me. 

X ,  at.  30.  Male,  good  habits,  fugitive  ambitions, 

intellect  about  No.  12  of  my  scale.  Inexorably  mate- 
rialistic tendencies,  with  longings  to  see  things  more 
spiritually.  Want  of  imagination;  general  lack  of 
persistent  energy ;  hence  constant  efforts  aborted  by 


230  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

incapacity  for  continued  labor,  and  lack  of  the  bribes 
offered  by  imagination.  Shifts  responsibility  on  to 
his  ancestral  inheritances.  A  life  of  self -excuses,  but 
says  he  is  a  failure.  Advise  the  tonic  of  a  desperate 
love-affair  with  a  woman  of  sense.  He  says  the  medi- 
cine seems  to  be  wisely  ordered,  but  who  is  to  be  the 
apothecary  ?  Prognosis  bad. 

"  I  think  I  shall  call  on  that  doctor,"  said  St.  Clair, 
laughing.  "  I  know  an  apothecary — what  next  ? " 

Case  47. 

Mrs.  B ,  set.  33.  Not  a  strong  nature,  but  mildly 

disposed  to  do  good,  to  attend  to  life's  duties.  No 
tastes,  no  strong  traits;  morally  anemic.  Spoilt  as 
a  child  j  indulged  by  a  husband ;  petted  by  fortune. 
No  intense  maternal  instincts,  and  relieved  of  the  care 
of  her  children.  Is  bored  to  the  limit  of  endurance, 
and  is  a  li ttle  pleased  with  her  capacity  for  ennui ;  re- 
gards it  as  a  distinction.  A  life  without  motives,  and, 
as  a  result,  peevish  discontentment.  Her  husband  asks 
advice.  He  is  immensely  rich.  I  advise  poverty, 
but  he  thinks  that  worse  than  ennui.  There  are  no 
moral  tonics  for  these  people.  You  shall  and  you 
must  are  not  in  their  drug-shops.  That  is  the  malaria 
of  excessive  wealth. 

Case  131.  "This  will  interest  you,"  I  said,  "in  the 
light  of  our  recent  talk.  It  is  the  last  I  shall  trouble 
you  with." 

L at  thirty-five  marries  a  woman  of  fortune  and 

attractions,  an  only  child.  By  degrees  she  insists  with 
tears  and  entreaties  on  absorbing  his  life  in  her  own. 
He  cannot  leave  her  a  day  without  difficulty ;  has  by 
degrees  given  up  his  sports,  his  outdoor  pursuits,  and 


CHARACTERISTICS.  231 

at  last  is  driven  or  decoyed  into  abandoning  his  busi- 
ness, which  is  not  a  necessity,  as  she  is  rich  and  lav- 
ishly generous.  Her  capacity  for  attachment  is  ab- 
normally strong.  Her  case  is  one  of  jealousy  carried 
to  the  extent  of  hating  a  rival  in  his  pursuits  or  his 
tastes.  She  must  be  his  life  and  adequate.  This  im- 
plies vast  belief  in  herself.  Of  other  women  she  is 
not  jealous.  Under  this  narrowing  of  existence  he  is 
failing  in  health  of  mind  and  body,  and  thinks  himself 
a  traitor  to  her.  He  is  dissatisfied  with  a  too  merely 
emotional  life.  The  woman  sometimes  absorbs  the 
man;  the  man  rarely  captures  the  totality  of  the 
woman.  Either  is  unwholesome.  He  consults  me. 
I  predict  for  him  a  sad  failure  unless  he  consents  to 
declare  his  independence  and  is  willing  to  discipline 
her  into  happiness.  He  will  be  unlikely  to  take  my 
advice. 

At  this  point  Clayborne  broke  in  with  a  yawn. 
"  Really,  my  dear  North,"  he  said,  "  how  much  more  of 
this  is  there  ? " 

I  laughed.  "  This  is  by  no  means  all,  but  I  shall 
not  ask  you  to  hear  more.  There  is  material  for  a 
dozen  novels  in  these  notes." 

"  That  is  an  admirable  reason  for  going  no  further. 
I  never  read  novels.  I  tried  to  once,  but  I  found  that 
it  made  me  desire  to  go  beyond  facts  in  my  own 
work." 

"To  go  beyond  facts?"  said  St.  Clair.  "It  seems 
to  me  that  imagination  controlled  by  reason  ought  to 
be  indispensable  to  the  true  historian." 

"  Oh,  your  picturesque  historian  ?    We  know  him. 
Good  night,  Mrs.  Vincent." 
16 


232  CHARACTERISTICS. 

With  this  our  evening  ended.  But  as  I  went  out 
Mrs.  Vincent  said :  "  Come  in  to-morrow ;  I  want  you 
to  help  a  friend  of  mine.  It  is  and  it  is  not  a  medical 
question." 

I  said  I  would  come,  and,  turning,  noticed  a  queer 
smile  on  the  features  of  Vincent. 


XVL 


Oil  are  good  to  come  so  early,"  said 
our  hostess.     "  Sit  down." 
"  Is  she  old  or  young  ? " 
"I  decline  to  say.    You  will  be 
amused  and  puzzled." 

This  time  Mrs.  Vincent  was 
mouse-colored,  and  clad  in  some  stuff  of  silvery  sheen 
where  it  caught  the  light.  The  flowers  were  vivid 
orchids,  which  looked  like  embroidered  jokes  or  gro- 
tesque floral  caricatures. 

"  I  want  first,"  she  said,  "  to  talk  a  little  about  your 
character  doctor.     Is  not  every  true  and  clever  physi- 
cian more  or  less  what  he  tries  to  be  ? " 
"Yes." 

"  And  people  confess  to  you  ? " 
"Ah,  too  much — too  much ! " 
She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  said :  "  I  ought 
to  hesitate   about  putting  burdens  on  one   already 
weighted  heavily,  but  it  so  chances  that  a  woman — 
indeed,  women — I  esteem  need  help  which  you  know 
how  to  give.    And — oh,  I  meant  to  explain,  but  here 
comes  Mrs.  Leigh." 

As  she  spoke  a  large,  handsome  woman  entered. 
She  was  known  to  me  by  name,  and,  in  fact,  was  one 
of  my  kindred,  but  so  far  back  as  to  give  me  no  claim 


234  CHARACTERISTICS. 

of  distinct  relationship.  Nor  had  we  ever  met,  because 
she  had  been  for  many  years  in  Europe. 

After  I  had  been  presented,  she  and  Mrs.  Vincent 
fell  into  talk,  and  thus  gave  me  a  chance  to  observe 
that  the  newcomer  was  clearly  a  woman  somewhat 
peculiar  and  positive,  who  had  seen  much  of  many 
societies,  and  was  evidently  of  a  not  rare  type  of  the 
woman  of  the  world. 

Presently  Mrs.  Vincent  said :  "I  promised  to  talk 
to  Dr.  North  of  your  difficulty,  but  perhaps,  as  he  is 
here,  and  you  too,  it  were  better  you  said  to  him  di- 
rectly what  you  want." 

"  I  would  rather  have  done  so  through  you,  my  dear. 
But,  in  fact,  I  am  troubled.  I  distrust  my  own  opin- 
ions, and  I  want  to  be  just  to  my  daughter." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  I  said. 

"  You  do  not  know  my  daughter  Alice  ?  Of  course 
you  could  not." 

"  Suppose  you  state  your  difficulty." 

"  Alice  is  twenty-four —  Do  tell  him;  my  dear.  My 
opinion  is  worthless." 

"  Gladly,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  Alice  is  a  woman  of 
unusual  force  of  character.  As  life  has  gone  on  she 
has  acquired  a  strong  belief  that  a  woman  of  fortune 
and  intellect  (for  she  is  more  than  merely  intelligent) 
should  have  some  distinct  career.  She  has  seen  much 
of  the  gay  world,  and  it  does  not  satisfy  her  cravings. 
Like  Hamlet,  neither  men  nor  women  delight  her. 
And  now,  coming  home  to  live,  she  has  grown  de- 
pressed and  unhappy.  Occupations  without  definite 
aims  dissatisfy  her,  and  while  she  performs  every  duty 
to  her  home  circle  and  to  society,  which  she  measurably 


CHARACTERISTICS.  235 

likes,  she  has  a  strong  sense  that  these  do  not  compe- 
tently fill  her  life.  No  one  knows  better  than  I  what 
this  means.  I  had  once  this  disease,  and  pretty  badty 
— the  hunger  for  imperative  duties." 

"And  you,"  I  said,  much  interested — "you  were 
cured?" 

"  Yes ;  by  marriage.  It  is  what  you  call  a  heroic 
remedy.  But  not  all  women  marry,  and  Alice  has  so 
far  been  hard,  in  fact  impossible,  to  please.  She  has 
my  sympathy  because  I  once  did  have  ambitions  for  a 
distinct  career.  They  are  lost  now  in  the  perfect 
gratification  which  I  have  in  seeing  the  growth  and 
increasing  usefulness  of  my  husband's  life.  It  con- 
tents me  fully,  but  it  might  not  have  done  so.  I  pity 
profoundly  the  large-minded  woman  who,  craving  a 
like  satisfaction,  finds  too  late  that  the  man  in  whose 
life  she  has  merged  her  own  is  incapable  of  living  up 
to  her  ideals." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh,  "  you  are  no  doubt  correct, 
but  Alice  is  Alice,  and  no  one  else,  and  Frederick  Vin- 
cents are  not  common,  and — " 

"  Go  on,  dear.    Best  to  tell  your  own  story." 

"  Oh,  Alice  says  she  can  endure  it  no  longer,  and 
now  she  proposes  to — really,  Anne,  it  is  awful.  She 
wants  to  study  medicine,  and,  oh,  you  do  not  know 
Alice.  She  is  so  determined.  At  last  I  promised  to 
inquire  about  it.  It  is  too  distressing.  And  what  can 
I  do  ?  I  am  like  a  baby  when  she  talks  to  me.  She 
is  so  obstinate,  and  then  I  get  tired  and  say,  '  Have  it 
your  own  way,'  and  after  that  we  both  cry,  and  in  two 
or  three  days  it  is  all  to  be  gone  over  again,  just  as  I 
think  I  am  done  with  it.  Marry  her!  If  I  only 


236  CHARACTERISTICS. 

could.  And  now  what  do  you  advise?"  said  Mrs. 
Leigh,  turning  to  me. 

I  was  a  little  puzzled,  and  hesitated.  At  last  I  said : 
"  Tell  me  first,  Mrs.  Vincent,  what  do  you  think  of  this 
matter  ?  It  is  not  to  be  settled  by  my  own  views.  I 
do  not  know  Miss  Leigh,  and  you  do." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  have  tried  to  put  you  in  possession  of 
her  peculiarities.  Would  you  say,  let  her  do  as  she 
desires,  or  would  you  be  positive  in  refusal  ?  She  will 
yield,  but  she  will  hate  it." 

"  Could  I  see  her  ? "  I  said. 

"  Yes ;  she  is  dining  out,  but  will  be  here  very  soon. 
She  is  to  call  for  her  mother." 

"  If,  my  dear  Anne,  she  knew  that  we  had  been  dis- 
cussing her — she  is  capable,  the  dear  child,  of  any- 
thing." 

"  Even  of  a  love-affair,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  merrily. 

"  Of  anything  else  but  that.  Men  are  delightful  to 
Alice  until  they  become  interested ;  then,  as  she  says, 
she  becomes  disinterested." 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,"  cried  our  hostess. 
"The  moment  a  man  is  interested  he  ceases  to  be 
interesting  to  some  women.  If  the  position  has  in  it 
nothing  ridiculous  to  a  woman,  then  she  is  either  in 
danger  or  is  a  mere  coquette." 

"  I  do  not  profess  to  comprehend  Alice,"  said  Mrs. 
Leigh.  "The  boys  I  can  manage,  and  Maude;  but 
once  when  Alice  was  very  little  she  said,  '  Mama,  was 
the  Centurion  a  woman  ? '  Of  course  I  said, '  No ;  and 
why  do  you  ask  so  silly  a  question?'  'Because  he 
just  said,  "Do  this,"  and  "Go,"  and  "Do  that,"  and 
never  gave  any  reasons ;  and  that  is  the  way  you  do.' 


CHARACTERISTICS.  237 

Of  course  I  punished  her,  but  that  was  useless.  Once, 
after  I  had  put  her  on  bread  and  water  for  a  day,  she 
told  me  the  Bible  said  that  'man  shall  not  live  by 
bread  alone.'  So  I  told  her  she  had  water  too.  When 
I  came  to  let  her  out  that  evening,  she  said,  '  I  'm  so 
sorry,  mama  $  I  did  not  think  about  the  water,  and  I 
forgot  I  was  a  girl ;  the  Bible  says  a  man.'  Now  we 
never  argue." 

I  caught  Mrs.  Vincent's  eye  for  a  moment.  It  was 
intelligent  and  telegraphic.  I  began  to  feel  curious 
about  this  reasoning  child,  and  the  woman  evolved  out 
of  such  a  childhood. 

"  I  can  see,"  returned  our  hostess,  "  how  difficult  it 
must  have  been  to  manage  a  being  like  that,  and  one 
too,  as  I  recall  Alice,  so  affectionate  and  so  sensitive." 

"O  my  dear  Anne,  sensitive  hardly  expresses  it. 
My  children  have  been  brought  up  on  system,  and  a 
part  of  it  has  been  absolute  certainty  of  punishment. 
But  if  I  punished  Ned,  and  he  needed  it  pretty  often, 
Alice  was  in  tears  for  a  day,  'And,  would  I  punish 
her  ? '  And  one  day  she  was  sure  that  would  hurt  Ned 
worse.  Well,  at  last  I  took  her  at  her  word,  and  then 
Ned  was  in  a  rage,  and  declared  he  would  kill  him- 
self if  I  ever  struck  her  again." 

"  Struck !  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent.     "  But  pardon  me." 

"  Oh,  they  were  mere  children.  I  do  not  at  all  share 
your  views  about  education ;  and  then,  dear,  you  have 
no  experience — none." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  quietly. 

She  was  vastly  tender  about  all  little  ones,  as  some 
childless  women  are.  Pausing  a  moment,  she  added : 
"  Our  only  excuse  for  talking  so  intimately  of  my  dear 


238  CHARACTERISTICS. 

Alice  is  because  I  want  Dr.  North  to  understand  the 
person  for  whom  we  seek  his  advice.  Few  people  are 
as  little  likely  to  misunderstand  us  as  he." 

"  Indeed,  Anne,  if  he  can  see  through  Alice,  he  will 
be  very  clever." 

"No  one,"  I  returned, "can  easily  apprehend  charac- 
ter from  mere  description,  and  you  seem  to  me  to  have, 
and  to  have  had,  a  very  complex  nature  to  deal  with." 

"  No ;  she  is  simple,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  and,  like 
such  people,  very  direct.  Only, — and  you  will  pardon 
me,  Helen, — Mrs.  Leigh  and  her  daughter  are  people 
so  different  that  it  is  not  easy  for  them  to  agree  in 
opinion.  In  all  lesser  matters  Alice  yields.  In  larger 
matters  she  is  at  times  immovable,  and,"  she  added, 
laughing,  "  as  my  dear  Mrs.  Leigh  is  also,  and  always 
immovable — " 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  mama,  interrupting  her,  "  excuse  me, 
dear  Anne,  but  that  is  because  I  am  systematic,  and 
system  can  never  be  cruel,  because  people  know  what 
to  expect.  I  heard  Mr.  Clayborne  say  that,  and  it 
struck  me  as  very  profound." 

"  Be  sure,"  I  replied,  not  a  little  amused,  "  that  I 
shall  regard  all  you  say  as  a  confidence.  I  must  know 
Miss  Leigh  personally,  and  better  than  your  talk  can 
make  me  know  her,  before  I  advise  you,  and  even  then 
I  may  decline  to  advise,  or  my  advice  may  be  of  little 
use,  to  her,  at  least." 

"Too  true,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leigh.  "I  know  her 
well,  and  my  advice  is  of  very  little  use." 

"  I  hear  the  carriage,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  This  very 
original  consultation  had  better  end  here.  You  were 
at  Baden,  Helen,  were  you  not  ? " 


CHARACTERISTICS.  239 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  meet  the  Falconbergs  ?  Vincent  is  very 
much  attached  to  them.  You  know  he  carried  on  a 
suit  for  the  German  embassy  when  Count  Falconberg 
was  Charge.  Ah,  my  dear  Alice,  how  late  you  are ! 
The  dinner  must  have  been  very  pleasant.  Where  is 
Edward  ?  My  old  friend  Dr.  Owen  North,  Miss  Leigh." 

Instantly  I  knew,  as  I  rose  to  meet  her,  that  she 
understood  that  we  had  been  talking  of  her.  I  read 
with  ease  the  language  of  her  face.  One  has  these 
mysterious  cognitions  as  to  certain  people,  and  even 
the  steadying  discipline  of  society  had  as  yet  failed  to 
enable  her  to  preserve  that  entire  control  of  the  feat- 
ures which  makes  its  life  an  easy  masquerade.  The 
trace  of  annoyed  surprise  was  gone  as  she  said  cor- 
dially :  "  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  know  you.  We  crossed 
your  path  in  Europe  over  and  over  years  ago,  and  I 
used  to  hear  mama  regretting  that  we  had  not  met." 

"  It  was  my  loss,"  I  returned. 

"  And  was  the  dinner  pleasant  ?  Do  tell  us,"  said 
Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Yes  and  no.  Too  long.  All  our  dinners  here  are 
too  long.  I  exhausted  one  of  my  neighbors.  He  was 
rather  ponderous.  I  tried  him  on  a  variety  of  subjects, 
but  at  last  we  hit,  by  good  luck,  on  the  stock-exchange. 
It  must  be  a  queer  sight,  and  when  we  women  are 
stock-brokers  in  the  year  2000 — ah,  I  should  like  to 
see  what  it  will  be  then.  I  know  all  about  bulls,  and 
bears,  and  puts,  and  shorts,  and  margins,  and — " 

"  Alice !  "  said  Mrs.  Leigh,  severely. 

"  And  the  other  man  ? "  said  I. 

"  Ah,  he  was  really  a  nice  boy  of  twenty.    He  con- 


240  CHARACTERISTICS. 

fided  to  me  his  ambitions.  Do  you  not  know,  Dr. 
North,  the  sort  of  fresh  shrewdness  a  young  fellow 
like  that  has  sometimes  ?  It  is  delightful,  and  such  a 
pleasant  belief  that  he  knows  the  world." 

"  That  is  like  Alice.  She  is  always  losing  her  heart 
to  some  boy  in  his  teens,"  said  the  mama. 

"  She  ought  to  know  Mr.  St.  Clair,"  cried  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. "  He  is  in  his  teens,  and  always  will  be.  And 
I  must  be  a  witch.  Indeed,  I  uttered  no  spells,  but 
he  always  comes  just  at  the  moment  one  wants  him, 
unless  you  expect  him  at  dinner."  And  so,  amidst  her 
laughing  remarks,  she  presented  St.  Clair  to  Miss  Alice 
and  her  astonished  mama. 

St.  Clair  was  utterly  regardless  of  the  conventional 
in  many  ways,  and  especially  as  to  engagements.  He 
might  or  might  not  dine  with  you  if  he  had  promised 
to  do  so,  and  these  failures,  due  very  often  to  facility 
of  f orgetfulness,  were  at  times  quite  deliberate,  and  to 
appearance  selfish,  or  at  least  self -full  He  would  re- 
ceive a  telegram  and  leave  it  unopened  for  a  day,  and 
I  have  seen  the  drawer  of  his  desk  filled  with  unopened 
letters. 

Now  he  was  in  a  long,  dark-brown  velvet  jacket,  and 
a  spotless,  thin  white  flannel  shirt,  with  a  low  collar 
and  a  disheveled  red  necktie.  As  to  his  hands,  they 
were  always  perfectly  cared  for,  white,  and  delicate. 
The  crown  of  brown,  wilful  curls  over  the  merry  eyes 
went  well  with  his  picturesque  disorder  of  dress,  but  I 
could  see  that  Mrs.  Leigh  set  him  down  at  once  as  a 
person  not  of  her  world.  She  was  as  civilly  cool  as 
her  daughter  was  the  reverse.  He  stood  a  moment 
by  Miss  Alice  in  her  evening  dress,  a  rosy  athlete,  blue- 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  241 

eyed,  gay,  happy,  and  picturesque,  with  long  Vandyke 
beard,  soft  mustache,  and  an  indefinite,  careless  grace 
in  all  his  ways.  The  woman  was,  as  to  dress  and  out- 
side manner,  simply  and  charmingly  conventional.  I 
have  no  art  in  describing  faces.  Hers  was  of  a  clear 
white,  but  the  richly  tinted  lips  showed  that  this  was 
the  natural  hue  of  perfect  health.  As  she  stood,  I  saw 
that  this  paleness  was  not  constant.  Little  isles  of 
color  came  and  went,  and  seemed  to  me  to  wander 
about  cheek  and  neck,  as  if  to  visit  one  lovely  feature 
after  another.  Yes,  she  was  handsome ;  that  was  clear 
by  the  way  St.  Glair  tranquilly  regarded  her.  All 
beauty  of  form  bewildered  him  into  forgetfulness  of 
surroundings. 

As  he  was  presented,  St.  Clair  bowed  to  the  matron, 
shook  Mrs.  Vincent  by  both  hands,  and  then,  as  I  said, 
turned  a  quiet  gaze  of  delight  on  the  young  woman. 

"I  think  we  must  have  met  before,"  he  said. 

"Indeed,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes;  I  am  always  sure  of  that  about  certain 
people." 

"That  is  one  of  St.  Glair's  fads,"  I  said.  "But  as 
to  your  table-companions.  I  know  one  of  them.  His 
sole  pleasure  is  in  stock- gambling." 

"Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  "I  can  understand  that, 
and,  indeed,  all  gambling  propensities." 

"Anne !  my  dear  Anne ! "  said  Mrs.  Leigh. 

"Yes;  I  should  like  to  gamble  if  one  did  not  have 
to  lose,  which  I  should  hate,  or  to  win,  which  would 
be  worse." 

"And  to  me  it  is  incomprehensible,"  said  Miss  Alice. 
''1  dislike  chance." 


242  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"What !  the  dear  god  Chance  ?"  said  St.  Clair.  « I 
wish  I  could  shuffle  life  every  morning  like  a  pack  of 
cards." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  He  was  always  in 
earnest.  Then  she  remarked : 

"You  like  all  games  of  chance?" 

"Yes;  but  I  never  win.  I  want  to  think  I  shall  win, 
but  I  never  want  to  win." 

"And  of  course  you  do  sometimes?" 

"Yes,  it  is  like  making  love.  I  think  I  want  to  win, 
but  I  do  not,  and  I  am  dreadfully  afraid  if  I  come 
near  to  winning." 

Miss  Alice  looked  amused  and  puzzled. 

"A  rare  fancy,  I  should  say.  And  the  money — if 
you  do  win  ?  Does  it  not  annoy,  embarrass  ?" 

"Oh,  I  give  it  away.  I  prefer  to  give  it  back  to  the 
man;  but  I  tried  that  once,  and  found  that  it  was 
looked  upon  as  an  insult.  I  had  to  explain,  and  it 
was  not  very  easy." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  I.  "I  once  gambled  in 
stocks  indirectly,  and  with  a  lucky  result.  A  man  lost 
half  of  his  fortune  in  X.  Y.  stock.  It  fell  from  40  to 
7  in  a  month.  He  became  depressed  and  threatened 
to  kill  himself.  I  did  what  I  could,  and  assured  him 
that  the  stock  was  good  and  would  rise  again.  I  was 
very  young,  Miss  Leigh,  and  very  sanguine.  In  a 
month  he  came  back  and  said  he  was  himself  again, 
and  much  obliged  for  my  advice." 

"'What  advice?'  I  said. 

"  'Oh,'  he  cried,  'you  told  me  the  stock  was  good  and 
would  rise,  and  as  I  knew  you  were  a  friend  of  the 
president  of  the  road  I  determined  to  act  upon  your 


CHAEACTERISTICS.  243 

confidence,  and  so  I  bought  at  7  and  9  all  the  stock  I 
could  afford  to  cany.7 

"Without  a  word  I  left  him,  and,  returning  with  the 
morning  paper,  said,  'The  stock  is  37.  Promise  me  to 
sell  at  once.'  He  said,  'Of  course.'  Then  I  made  him 
pledge  himself  never  again  to  meddle  with  stocks." 

"And  he  kept  his  word  ?"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Yes ;  and  made  a  dreadful  amount  of  money." 

"I  like  your  making  him  promise  not  to  gamble," 
said  Miss  Leigh,  gravely.  "What  a  droll  story ! " 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Vincent  and  the  mother  had  been 
chatting  apart,  and  now  the  latter  rose.  "Come, 
Alice,"  she  said ;  and  then,  with  the  utmost  cordiality, 
"And,  Dr.  North,  let  us  see  you  soon,  very  soon,  and 
often.  We  are  of  the  same  blood,  you  know.  Good 
evening,  Mr.  St.  Glair ;  I  trust  we  shall  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again." 

St.  Clair  took  no  note  of  the  difference  in  manner  to 
him  and  to  me ;  I  do  not  think  he  saw  it.  He  was 
again  absorbed  in  the  study  of  Alice. 

"  Oh,  with  great  pleasure,"  he  returned.  "  And  Fred 
is  in  the  study,  Mrs.  Vincent,  you  said  ?  I  will  join 
him.  Good  night." 

He  went  up-stairs,  while  I  descended  the  staircase 
with  Mrs.  Vincent's  friends.  I  put  them  into  their 
carriage,  and  went  back. 

"  Shall  I  need  to  apologize  ?"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  when 
we  were  again  seated. 

"Indeed,  no.  What  a  remarkable  girl !  And  the 
mother?" 

"Oh,  better  than  she  seems.  There  is  much  sense 
back  of  her  views  as  to  system  in  education,  and 


244  CHARACTERISTICS. 

although  positive,  cruelly  tactless,  capable,  in  a  word, 
of  incredible  social  blunders,  she  is  yet  a  lady,  and, 
moreover,  a  kindly,  charitable  woman.  People  like  her. 
She  is  handsome  still,  as  you  see.  But  she  is  not  the 
mama  for  Alice." 

"I  did  not  like  her  manner  to  St.  Clair,"  I  said. 

"The  only  defense  possible  for  him  is  to  know  him. 
Imagine  the  effect  of  that  jacket  on  Mrs.  Leigh !  It 
said  Bohemia  at  once." 

"And  if  so,  what  must  be  to  her  social  nerves  the 
idea  of  Miss — Dr.  Alice,  in  fact  ?  Yes ;  I  shrink  from 
it  myself,"  I  continued,  "and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am 
wise." 

"At  least,"  returned  Mrs.  Vincent,  "it  cannot  be 
here  a  question  of  right  or  wrong.  There  is  no  wicked- 
ness in  it.  She  abandons  no  duty.  The  brothers  are 
old  enough  not  to  need  her.  The  mother  and  she  do 
not  agree.  I  mean  that  they  look  at  life  from  diverse 
points  of  view.  Really,  they  both  love  and  admire 
each  other.  Only  on  large  occasions  do  they  approach 
a  quarrel,  and  Alice  is  as  respectful  then  as  she  is  de- 
termined." 

"Not  obstinate.    Mrs.  Leigh  is  that,  I  should  say." 

"  Her  worst  annoyances  are  what  Fred  calls  Alice's 
white  mice.  She  has  a  curious  collection  of  friends, 
the  socially  lame,  halt,  and  blind,  who  adore  her,  and 
to  pursue  a  duty  is  as  much  a  temptation  to  Alice  as 
a  pleasant  bit  of  wickedness  is  to  some  other  women. 
You  will  like  her.  You  are  sure  to  like  her." 

"  I  do  already." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  And  do  make  St.  Clair  call. 
He  never  will  unless  you  make  him." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  245 

"  I  will  try.     I  can  at  least  leave  his  card." 

"Yes;  do.  Next  week,  you  know,  we  are  all  to 
take  tea  at  his  studio.  I  am  to  matronize  the  party. 
I  want  Alice  to  go,  and  her  mother,  but  I  will  see  to 
that.  Only  he  must  call,  and  then  a  few  words  to 
Mrs.  Leigh  will  settle  it.  She  does  what  I  like,  and 
likes  what  I  do,  and  is,  therefore,  a  model  to  all  my 
friends." 

u  I  have  no  need  of  the  example,  but  I  wish  you  had 
not  asked  me  to  meddle  in  this  doctor  business." 

"Why?" 

"  I  hardly  know." 

"  And  yet,  that  is  unusual  with  you.  I  mean,  not 
to  be  clear  as  to  your  reasons.  I  am  sorry ;  I  —  " 

"Please  don't — I  am  always  at  your  service — al- 
ways. I  will  find  a  chance  to  talk  to  Miss  Alice." 

"  Pray  do ;  but  be  careful.  I  want  her  to  like  you. 
You  know  I  insist  on  my  friends  liking  one  another. 
And  now  you  must  go.  I  am  tired.  Fred  is  up- 
stairs." 

"  No ;  I  must  go  home.    Good  night" 


xvn. 

SAW  none  of  these  people  for  some 
days.  The  Leighs  were  not  at  home 
when  I  called,  and  my  life  went  on 
its  usual  course  of  busy  hours.  Then 
I  remembered  Mrs.  Vincent's  re- 
quest, and  dropped  in  on  St.  Clair  at 
his  studio.  Asking  him  casually  if  he  had  called  on 
Mrs.  Leigh,  he  said,  "  No,"  and  to  my  surprise,  "  Would 
I  leave  his  card  ? "  I  said,  "  Yes ;  with  pleasure,"  and 
asked  him  at  what  hour  was  his  afternoon  tea. 

"  Jove !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  forgot  it.  I  will  see  Mrs. 
Vincent.  How  do  people  remember  things  ?  I  want 
to  have  that  splendid  young  woman ;  and  the  mama, 
I  suppose,  is  a  sad  necessity.  How  lucky  that  you 
came  in." 

"  Best  to  see  Mrs.  Vincent  soon." 
"I  will." 

"Now,  at  once.  Change  your  dress," — he  was  in 
his  blouse — "and  I  will  drop  you  there.  And  make 
haste." 

I  did  see  him  safely  into  Mrs.  Vincent's  house,  know- 
ing very  well  that  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that  he  would 
have  forgotten  the  whole  matter  had  I  not  reminded 
hin?  in  time.  Then  I  left  my  carriage  and  walked  to 


CHARACTERISTICS.  247 

Mrs.  Leigh's.  As  the  door  opened  I  met  Miss  Leigh 
in  the  hall,  dressed  for  the  street. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  you  are  caught  and  must  come  in. 
I  am  in  no  hurry  to  go  out.  I  am  sorry  mama  is  not 
at  home." 

"  I  am  at  least  fortunate,"  I  said,  as  we  turned  back 
along  the  hall,  "  in  finding  you,  and  you  will  please  to 
be  a  trifle  blind  while  I  drop  St.  Glair's  cards  on  the 
table.  Half  a  dozen  friends  are  needed  to  perform 
for  him  his  social  duties.  He  might  call  on  you  daily 
for  a  week,  and  then  not  for  six  months." 

"One  must  have  to  make  large  allowances  for  a 
friend  like  that,"  she  said,  as  we  entered  the  drawing- 
room.  "  But  do  you  not  think  that  that  is  a  part  of 
the  capacity  for  friendship  ?  I  mean  knowledge  with 
charity." 

"Assuredly.  And  with  all  his  shortcomings  St. 
Clair  is  a  man  to  love.  What  he  needs  in  life  is  some 
woman  as  tender  as  she  is  resolute." 

"  Alas  for  the  woman !  " 

"  No.  I  presuppose  the  one  essential  without  which 
the  double  life  is  inconceivable — to  me,  at  least. 
However,  this  must  be  left  to  fate.  Mrs.  Vincent  will 
ask  your  mother  and  you  to  his  studio  next  week. 
We  are  to  see  his  statues,  and  to  have  tea." 

"But  mama  will  never  go,"  she  returned,  hastily. 
"I  beg  pardon,  she  is  engaged, — I  mean  there  will  be 
some  engagement, —  and  I  should  like  to  go.  Why 
do  not  all  of  you  wear  brown  velvet  coats  ? " 

"  And  have  curly  hair,  and  write  verses,  and  carve 
statues,  and  look  like  young  Greek  athletes!  Ah, 
Miss  Leigh,  there  are  drawbacks — believe  me,  there 
17 


248  CHARACTERISTICS. 

are  drawbacks.  Now  a  dress-coat  would  have  made 
this  afternoon  tea  seem  so  easy  and  so  delightful  to 
a  matronly  kinswoman  of  mine." 

"  You  see  too  much,"  she  cried,  laughing.  "  Yes  j 
so  far  as  mama  is  concerned,  that  beautiful,  worn 
velvet  jacket  was  fatal.  But  perhaps  Mrs.  Vincent 
will  make  mama  go.  She  has  a  way  of  smiling  mama 
into  or  out  of  anything."  Then  she  paused  a  little 
and,  coloring,  said:  "Mama  told  me  last  night  that 
she  had  talked  with  you  and  Mrs.  Vincent  about  me. 
Mama  never  keeps  a  secret  very  long,  unless  you  ask 
her  to  tell  it,  and  I  was  sure  that  I  should  hear  of  it 
soon  or  late,  for  I  knew  at  once  the  other  night  that  I 
had  been  under  discussion.  Frankly  speaking,  I  did 
not  like  it.  Now,  if  you — if  you  were — were  a  girl, 
would  you  have  liked  it  ? " 

I  watched  her  with  amusement    and  honest  in- 


"  Oh,  the  delightful  possibility  of  being  a  girl,  and 
of  being  discussed  by  you  and  Mrs.  Vincent !  I  think 
I  could  stand  it." 

"  Please  do  not  laugh  at  me." 

"  I  do  not." 

"  But  you  do,  and  I  am  serious.  I  am  not  always 
to  be  taken  lightly.  And  men  are  so  apt  to  insist 
that  a  woman  must  be  anything  but  serious." 

"But  every  sermon  has  a  text.  About  what  are 
you  serious  ? " 

"You  know.  I — of  course  mama  told  me,  and,  to 
be  plain,  I  would  rather  state  my  own  case,  even  at 
the  risk  of  your  thinking  me  a  very  singular  young 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  249 

"  I  might  answer  that  to  be  unusual  is  not  always 
to  be  unpleasant." 

"  That  is  nicely  put  and  kindly.     May  I  go  on  ? " 

"I  wish  you  would.  I  have  heard  something  of 
this  trouble  of  yours." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  my  trouble.  People — other  people — 
take  the  rough  material  of  one's  views,  plans,  hopes, 
and  manufacture  trouble  out  of  them.  But  pardon 
me.  I  interrupted  you.  Do  you  really  want  me  to  go 
on?" 

"  Pray  do."  She  paused,  looked  up  at  me,  and  then 
down  at  her  lap,  and  at  last  set  wide  eyes  on  me  for  a 
moment  and  continued : 

"  I  hesitate  because  I  do  not  know  how  much  to  say. 
Mrs.  Vincent  can  tell  you  just  what  I  am,  the  bad  and 
the  good.  Oh,  I  see  she  has  done  it  already." 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  am  twenty-four.  I  have  more  than  enough 
means.  Also,  I  have  active  brains.  A  certain  discon- 
tentment with  this  life  of  bits  and  shreds  troubles 
me.  I  am  told  that  I  should  amuse  myself  as  others 
do — with  music.  I  can  play,  but  I  have  no  real  talent 
or  love  for  it.  Sketch !  I  can  caricature  hatefully 
well;  I  loathe  it.  And  at  last  mama  suggests  fancy 
work,  and  Aunt  Selina  says,  '  The  poor,  my  dear.'  If 
I  were  free  as  to  the  last  suggestion,  I  might  find  in 
it  a  true  career,  but  no  young  unmarried  woman  could 
make  of  this  a  life — not  mama's  daughter,  at  least. 
What  I  need  is  connected  work,  something  which 
offers  an  enlarging  life.  I  do  not  mean  for  ambition, 
but  as  a  definite  means  of  development.  You  are  go- 
ing to  say  there  is  science,  study." 


250  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"  I  was,"  I  answered.  "  You  are  dreadfully  appre- 
hensive as  to  one's  ideas." 

"  Oh,  it  was  what  others  have  suggested ;  but  mere 
acquirement  of  barren  knowledge  seems  to  me  a  poor 
use  to  make  of  life." 

"  Yes ;  that  is  true.    I  am  at  one  with  you  there." 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  want  to  study  medi- 
cine, and  practise  it  too.  That  is  all.  You  can  help 
me.  Be  on  my  side.  I — I  shall  thank  you  so  much. 
And  you  will  be  my  friend  in  this,  will  you  not?" 
These  last  sentences  were  spoken  with  some  excite- 
ment, and  with  a  look  of  earnest  anxiety.  I  knew  as 
she  talked  that  this  was  not  a  woman  to  turn  aside 
from  her  purposes  with  ease.  And  what  could  I  say  ? 
I,  too,  hesitated.  She  went  on  again,  and  now  with  a 
pretty  girl-like  timidity  which  touched  me. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  said  more  than  I  should ;  I  may 
have  asked  too  much  of  you.  Sometimes  I  seem  to 
myself  to  be  a  strong,  effective  woman,  needing  no 
help,  and  competent  to  go  my  way.  And  then  I  find 
I  have  troubled  mama,  and  that  hurts  me,  and  then  I 
relent,  and  am  like  a  weak  child  groping  about  for 
help.  Are  all  women  like  that  ?  I  am  stopped  here, 
and  turned  aside  there,  and  told  to  consult  this  one  or 
that.  It  seems  so  hard  to  do  what  is  right." 

"  No  one  knows  that  better  than  I  do,"  I  replied.  "It 
is  not  enough  to  want  to  do  right.  And  now,  as  regards 
your  mother,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  what  to  do  or  say. 
Like  you,  I  want  to  do  right,  and  do  not  find  it  easy." 

I  felt  that  I  did  not  wish  to  wound  this  gentle  girl, 
with  her  honest  longings,  and  her  despair  as  to  the 
meagerness  of  mere  upper-class  life — its  failures  to 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  251 

satisfy  the  large  mind  and  larger  heart.  After  an 
awkward  pause  I  said,  "  I  should  like  to  help  you,  and 
I  desire  in  so  doing  not  to  hurt  you  " ;  and,  having  so 
spoken,  felt  like  a  fool. 

"  But  you  must  not  mind  that.  It  is  not — not  as  if 
you  had  known  me  for  years.  Speak  as  you  would  to 
a  stranger,  a  patient." 

"  You  have  made  it  difficult." 

"I?    How?" 

"  No  matter.  I  will  do  as  you  say.  But  remember, 
I  may  be  wrong,  may  have  prejudices." 

"Pray,  go  on." 

"  I  think  that  every  human  being,  man  or  woman, 
is  entitled  to  any  career  he  or  she  may  please  to  de- 
sire. This  is  a  mere  human  right." 

"Oh,  thank  you." 

"Wait  a  little.  Whether  the  public  will  use  the 
person  or  not,  is  the  business  of  the  public.  Should 
you  ask  if  personally  I  believe  that  women  make  as 
good  doctors  as  men  of  like  education,  I  say  no. 
Should  you  ask  me  if  I  think  it  desirable  that  in  the 
interests  of  society  in  general  women  should  follow 
the  same  careers  as  men,  I  say  no." 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  serious  question,  or  rather  several  ques- 
tions, some  of  them  not  easily  to  be  answered.  I 
would  rather  not  discuss  them." 

"And  is  this  all?" 

"  No ;  and  you  will  smile  at  my  sequel.  I  never  saw 
a  woman  who  did  not  lose  something  womanly  in  ac- 
quiring the  education  of  the  physician.  I  hardly  put 
it  delicately  enough :  a  charm  is  lost." 


252  CHAEACTERISTICS. 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  of  no  moment." 

"  You  cannot  think  that.  You  would  lose  the  power 
to  know  you  had  lost  something.  That  is  the  real 
evil  Others  would  know  it.  Men,  at  least." 

"Do  you  think  this  really  important?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  Oh,  there  is  mama,  and  I  have  not  half  done." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  as  well,  Miss  Leigh.  You  should  ask 
some  one  who  is  not  a  doctor.  Every  profession  has 
its  prejudices,  and  I  am  constantly  in  fear  of  mine. 
But,  in  fact,  as  to  these,  the  best  of  us  are  like  people 
with  cross  pet  dogs ;  we  may  be  puzzled  to  know  what 
to  do  with  them,  but  we  do  not  knock  them  on  the 
head." 

"  Oh,  but  how  a  nice  frank  statement  like  that  com- 
forts one.  You  will  not  forget  that  I  have  as  yet  said 
no  word  in  reply  ? " 

"No.  I  shall  want  to  hear — I  shall  very  much 
want  to  hear." 

As  I  spoke,  Mrs.  Leigh  entered,  large,  rosy,  hand- 
some, and  smiling.  She  was  a  little  blown  from  the 
exertion  of  mounting  the  stairs. 

"  Good  morning,  Dr.  North.  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
— very  glad." 

"  Let  me  take  your  cloak,  mama,"  said  Miss  Alice,  as 
I  returned  the  mother's  welcome  and  added  that  I  was 
on  the  wing,  and  had  more  than  used  up  my  time. 
Mrs.  Leigh  was  profusely  sorry,  but  rang  the  bell,  and 
I  left  them. 

For  some  good  or  bad  reason  the  servant  was  not 
in  the  hall,  and  as  I  went  down  I  was  aware  that  I 
had  left  my  hat  in  the  drawing-room.  As  I  went  up 


CHARACTERISTICS.  253 

again  to  reclaim  it,  I  heard  Mrs.  Leigh's  voice  in  quick, 
decisive,  and  rather  high  tones.  I  was  seized  at  once 
with  a  violent  attack  of  what  I  may  call  the  cough 
social.  The  voice  fell  a  little,  and  I  went  in,  saying, 
"I  was  careless  enough  to  leave  my  hat,  and  rash 
enough  to  come  back  after  it." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh. 
"  Do  give  me  five  minutes  j  I  have  been  talking  to  my 
daughter." 

"I  beg  of  you,  mama — Dr.  North  has  an  engage- 
ment; please  not  to — " 

"  It  is  perfectly  useless,  Alice.    Every  one  is  talking 
about  it.     Mrs.  Flint  asked  me  if  you  were  going  to  , 
be  a  homeopath  or  a  regular." 

"  Mama ! " 

"And  old  Mr.  Ashton  asked  me  if  he  might  send 
for  you  when  he  had  the  gout,  and  that  fool,  his  son, 
talked  about  '  sweet  girl  graduates.' " 

I  had  to  choose  swiftly  between  retreat  or  a  declara- 
tion in  favor  of  the  mother  or  the  daughter,  who  stood 
white  and  still  before  us,  her  hands  clasped  together 
in  front  of  her. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  interposed.  "  I  have  really  but  a 
moment ;  and  again  a  pardon,  if  I  say  that  this  is  not 
the  best  way  to  meet  this  question.  You  have  flat- 
tered me  by  asking  me  to  share  your  counsels.  I 
must  have  time  to  think  about  it.  Miss  Leigh  has 
been  most  frank  with  me,  and,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leigh, 
speaking  for  myself,  were  I  Miss  Leigh,  nothing  would 
harden  me  like  the  ridicule  of  such  women  as  Mrs. 
Flint.  She  is  smart — that  is  the  word — and  ma- 
licious, and  so  confident  that  she  confuses  people  who 


254  CHARACTERISTICS. 

do  not  know  her  combination  of  ill  humor  and  inex- 
actness." 

"  I  did  not  quite  understand  her,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh. 
"  Do  you  think  she  could  have  meant  to  make  fun  of 
Alice,  of  us,  of  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  knew  of  course  you  would  see  through  her. 
I  hope  when  Miss  Leigh  attends  that  hoary  sinner 
Ashton,  she  will  give  him  some  good  old-fashioned 
dose.  May  I  beg  to  be  called  in  consultation  ? " 

Miss  Leigh  smiled.  Her  hands  unlocked.  "  Thank 
you,"  she  said.  "  And  do  let  this  matter  rest,  mama." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  I  wish  other  people  would ;  but  I 
could  not  expect  Dr.  North  to  agree  entirely  with  Mrs. 
Flint.  She  told  me—" 

"Mama!" 

"I  think  Dr.  North  ought  to  know  how  she  talks 
about  him." 

"  Ah,  I  knew  she  would  justify  my  character  of  her. 
You  have  made  me  happy  for  the  day.  Good-by. 
Good-by,  Miss  Leigh." 


XVITL 

T.  CLAIB,  a  day  later,  was  in  what 
Vincent  called  the  indefinite  mood. 
When  in  this  state  he  wandered,  or 
rather  drifted,  whither  the  tide  of  ac- 
cidental encounter  took  him.  These 
mental  states  were  apt  to  be  followed 
by  days  of  impassioned  work  with  the  pen  or  molding- 
tool.  But  when  idle,  he  would  drop  in  upon  Vincent 
or  Clayborne,  meander  about  among  books  of  law 
or  history,  complain  with  childlike  disappointment  if 
their  owners  could  not  go  out  with  him,  and  at  last 
slip  away  silently  to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  colors  of  the 
piled-up  fruit  in  the  old  market-sheds,  or  to  walk  for 
miles  in  the  country,  have  what  he  termed  a  debauch 
of  milk  at  a  farm-house,  and  return  home  late  at  night. 
About  eleven  in  the  morning  he  found  himself  (for 
it  was  literally  that)  in  Clayborne's  study.  The  his- 
torian looked  around.  "  Take  a  pipe  ?  Cigars  in  the 
case ;  cigarettes  in  the  drawer ;  books  on  the  table.  I 
am  busy." 

The  final  remark  was  quite  useless.  "  So  am  I,"  re- 
turned the  poet.  And  this  exasperated  Clayborne  into 
attention.  He  shut  a  huge  folio  with  such  vigor  as 
to  disturb  the  gathered  dust  of  other  lands,  and  said 
savagely : 


256  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

"  Busy !    You  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  St.  Glair,  "I  am  so 
happy  to-day.  Don't  moralize.  Be  glad  some  fellow 
carries  his  Garden  of  Eden  always  with  him.  No ; 
don't  consider  it  affectation.  You  are  a  misery-mill  j 
I  am  a  flower-press.  And,  really,  grumble  seems  to 
be  your  normal  diet.  Just  now  you  think  you  are 
unhappy  because  some  other  man  has  said  you  make 
mistakes  or  come  to  wrong  conclusions.  It  is  a  dis- 
guised joy.  You  are  not  truly  unhappy.  As  for  me, 
I  do  not  care  a  cent  what  any  man  thinks  of  my 
statues  or  my  verses.  I  simply  live.  That  is  joy.  I 
am  contented.  Why  not  leave  me  to  my  happy  fol- 
lies ?  North  says  I  have  never  achieved  moral  equi- 
librium, and  that 's  very  fine,  I  dare  say." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Clayborne,  after  a  moment's  de- 
liberation, "  that  moral  equilibrium  means  serenity  of 
mind." 

"Now  is  n't  that  a  little  feeble?"  retorted  the  poet. 

"I  rather  think  you  are  correct,"  said  Clayborne, 
judicially.  "I  take  it  that  serenity  of  mind  is  ac- 
quired, and  is  a  state  of  content  intellectually  pro- 
cured. Whereas  you  never  acquire  anything — I  mean 
through  experience." 

"  Quite  true,  and  how  nice  that  is !  With  you  for 
knowledge,  Vincent  for  a  conscience,  Mrs.  Vincent  for 
a  confessor,  and  North — by  Q-eorge ! "  he  cried,  rising, 
"  I  wonder  if  he  left  a  card  for  me.  I  asked  him  to. 
You  ought  to  see  that  woman." 

"  You  are  like  a  book  without  an  index,"  said  the 
host  "  What  are  you  after  now  ?  What  woman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  her  figure  and  serenity !     You  should  see  her 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  257 

when  her  face  is  at  rest,  and  then  when  it  smiles. 
And  her  eyes !  Come  and  take  a  walk.  It 's  Miss 
Leigh  I  mean." 

"Oh,  that  girl,  Mrs.  Vincent's  latest  enthusiasm. 
My  dear  boy,  take  care.  I  think  I  see  you  with  Mrs. 
Leigh  for  a  mother-in-law.  You  will  need  no  other 
censor.  It  would  be  the  thing  of  all  others  for 
you." 

"  So  says  Mrs.  Vincent.  I  have  several  people  who 
attend  to  my  interests  and  doctor  my  morals.  And 
you  will  not  walk  ?  Then  I  think  I  shall  go  and  call 
on  the  Leighs.  I  should  immensely  like  to  model  that 
hand." 

"  Best  tell  Mrs.  Leigh  so,"  said  Clayborne,  with  a 
grim  smile. 

" I  think  I  shall,"  returned  St.  Glair,  simply.  "And 
now  you  may  demolish  that  critic ;  my  malediction  on 
him.  Good-by." 

After  this  he  went  away,  and  on  the  street  bought 
a  lot  of  roses  and  went  along  smelling  of  them,  until 
of  a  sudden  he  was  aware  of  Mrs.  Vincent,  who  said 
as  they  met,  "  I  suppose  these  flowers  are  for  me." 

"  If  you  like,     I  was  going  to  call  on  Miss  Leigh." 

"  And  Mrs.  Leigh,  I  trust,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  de- 
murely. 

"And  Mrs.  Leigh,"  echoed  he,  with  resignation. 
"The  stem  of  the  rose."  Then  he  added  discon- 
nectedly, "  Clayborne  knows  them.  I  don't  like  that 
woman.  I  did  not  know  it  until  I  got  away  the  other 
night." 

"Oh,  she  is  really  nice.  Don't  nurse  prejudices; 
when  they  get  their  growth  they  become  difficulties 


258  CHARACTERISTICS. 

and  embarrassments.  And  you  see — well,  I  want  you 
to  like  them.  I  mean  the  Leighs." 

"  I  do.  Is  n't  that  girl  superb  ?  Come  with  me. 
If  you  don't,  I  will  not  go  at  all." 

It  thus  happened  that  the  two  found  Mrs.  Leigh 
at  home  and  alone. 

"I  met  Mr.  St.  Clair  on  the  way  to  call  on  you," 
said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "And  how  are  you  all  ?  And  my 
dear  Alice,  is  she  visible  ? " 

"No;  she  is  out — as  my  Ned  says,  gone  to  visit 
some  of  her  social  cripples." 

St.  Clair  looked  up.     "  What  are  social  cripples  ? " 

"Oh — social  cripples." 

"  I  think  I  must  be  one,"  said  St.  Clair.  "And  per- 
haps Mrs.  Vincent  could  persuade  you  to  consider  my 
claims.  I  have  some  people  coming  to  afternoon  tea 
at  my  studio." 

"  I  fear  that  we  are  engaged,"  returned  Mrs.  Leigh. 
"Really—" 

"  But  you  do  not  know  the  date  yet.  How  can  you 
be  engaged  ? n 

"  Oh,  we  shall  be,  I  am  sure." 

"Not  for  my  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "This  is 
mine,  you  know.  I  permit  Mr.  St.  Clair  to  lend  me 
his  studio.  We  will  talk  it  over  later.  I  want  your 
advice  as  to  some  of  the  arrangements.  And  now, 
about  the  children."  After  which  there  was  talk  be- 
tween the  two  women,  while  St.  Clair  fell  into  a 
reverie,  or  with  mental  disapproval  considered  the 
furniture,  until,  at  last,  Mrs.  Vincent  rose,  saying, 
"  And  now  Mr.  St.  Clair  and  I  must  go.  I  saw  your 
carriage  at  the  door." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  259 

"Good-by,"  said  St.  Glair,  to  her  amusement  and 
annoyance.  She  was  afraid  to  leave  him,  but  never- 
theless he  stayed,  and,  as  they  said  a  word  or  two, 
surveyed  the  pictures.  Then,  being  alone  with  Mrs. 
Leigh,  who  remained  standing  for  a  moment,  he 
said: 

"Don't  you  think  pictures  are  very  embarrassing 
things  ?  They  are  so  like  acquaintances — so  welcome 
at  first,  and  then  after  a  while  one  gets  tired  of  them. 
Now  here  is  this  Corot  with  its  ghosts  of  trees — " 

"  I  never  care  for  Corot,"  said  the  hostess ;  "  and  as 
for  acquaintances,  I — " 

"  Oh,"  he  interrupted.  "  Pardon  me,  you  were  go- 
ing to  say  that  an  acquaintance  is  a  person  with 
whom  we  are  really  not  acquainted.  Language  is 
such  a  fraud.  It  ought  all  to  be  made  over — and 
some  other  things,  manners,  for  instance — n 

"  I  can  imagine  the  need  for  that  sometimes,"  said 
Mrs.  Leigh,  severely.  She  felt  as  if  some  bad  boy  had 
exploded  a  pack  of  fire-crackers  under  her  august  pet- 
ticoats. 

"  Oh,  I  feel  it,"  he  went  on,  laughing.  "  And  if  one 
could  arrange  an  exchange  of  manners,  it  would  illus- 
trate the  idea  neatly.  Now,  if  you  and  I  could  effect 
such  an  exchange." 

"  Good  Heavens  I  I  prefer  to  keep  my  own,"  said 
she,  shocked  out  of  conventional  propriety,  and  amused 
despite  herself. 

"  But  why  not  ?  Then  I  know  you  would  be  sure 
to  say,  '  Of  course  I  shall  come  to  your  tea.'  And  you 
will  come,  I  know  " ;  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a  wait- 
ing, devoted  expression  which  had  been  but  too  often 


260  CHARACTERISTICS. 

serviceable.  Even  Mrs.  Leigh  relented  a  little.  "  We 
shall  see,"  she  said. 

<:  Oh,  you  will  come,"  he  said.  "And  to  think  of  it, 
I  once  stood  near  you  in  Paris,  and  just  as  I  asked  to 
be  presented  you  went  away." 

"  And  where  was  that,  pray  ? " 

"  Oh,  at  the  Comte  St.  Clair's,  a  far-away  kinsman 
of  mine.  You  know — or  do  not  know — that  we  were 
Irish,  and  came  to  France  long  ago.  My  branch  be- 
came Huguenots,  more  's  the  pity." 

"Indeed.    Why  a  pity?" 

"It  lacks  picturesqueness.  Once  it  had  flavor  of 
romance.  It  has  none  now.  I  ought  to  have  been  a 
Catholic." 

"And  what  are  you  now,  may  I  ask?" 

"  I  am  nothing." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Oh,  it  has  its  conveniences.  I  feel  that  con- 
stantly." 

"  I  trust  so,  indeed." 

As  usual,  he  took  little  note  of  irrelevances,  but 
went  on :  "I  often  like  to  fit  people  with  the  religion 
for  which  they  were  plainly  meant.  Really,  as  Clay- 
borne  says,  or  perhaps  it  was  Vincent,  the  outward 
forms  of  religion  are  their  manners.  Some  are  stately, 
some  common.  But  I  have  kept  you.  I  must  go." 

Mrs.  Leigh  did  not  express  regret,  and  he  left  her, 
with  what  reflections  I  could  well  imagine  when  St. 
Clair,  in  a  mood  of  amused  criticism,  related  this 
astonishing  interview  to  Mrs.  Vincent  and  me.  Mrs. 
Vincent  shook  her  fan  at  him.  "  She  will  never  come 
to  your  tea,"  she  said.  "  Never." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  261 

"  Yes,  she  will.     The  Count  was  useful." 

"  No ;  you  were  never  more  mistaken.  She  is  not 
the  least  of  a  snob.  There  should  be  a  milder  word." 

"  I  should  fancy,"  said  I,  "  that  she  must  be  the  very 
ideal  of  the  unexpected.  At  least,  if  all  I  hear  be 
true." 

"  No  and  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  The  great  world 
has  been  of  use  to  her.  It  is  a  valuable  education  to 
some  natures.  I  often  think  what  she  might  have 
been  had  she  remained  at  home." 

"  I  think  I  see,"  said  I.  "  But  certainly  she  is  as 
full  of  social  surprises  as  it  is  possible  for  a  decently 
well-bred  woman  to  be." 

"  She  is  like  a  rocking-chair,"  cried  the  poet. 

"  A  what  ? "  we  exclaimed,  laughing. 

"  A  rocking-chair.  My  hostess  put  one  in  my  bed- 
room last  fall.  I  tried  it  once,  and  fell  over  on  my 
head.  If  I  put  a  foot  on  it  to  lace  a  boot,  it  hit  me  on 
the  nose.  It  was  always  doing  queer  things.  If  I 
hung  clothes  on  it,  it  fell  over,  and  if  the  window  was 
open,  it  rocked  as  if  a  ghost  were  making  itself  com- 
fortable. Then  it  rocked  on  my  toes,  and  mashed  a 
sleeve-button,  and — " 

"Don't,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  quite  helpless  with 
mirth.  "  I  won't  have  my  friends  abused."  And  we 
went  away. 


J 


T.  GLAIR'S  tea  was  postponed,  and  as 
the  weeks  ran  by,  I  often  saw  Miss 
Leigh  at  Mrs.  Vincent's,  and  now 
and  then  at  her  own  house.  No  more 
was  said  by  me  as  to  her  plans.  I 
less  and  less  liked  the  subject,  and 
when  she  approached  it  I  merely  put  the  matter  aside, 
saying  that  it  was  too  late  to  consider  it  this  year  be- 
cause the  college  courses  were  half  over,  and  would 
she  let  it  rest  for  a  time?  But  at  last  Mrs.  Leigh, 
who  was  irrepressible,  urged  me  to  speak  again  to  her 
daughter,  and,  seeing  that  it  was  as  well  to  make  an 
end  of  it,  I  put  her  off  until  I  could  talk  once  more 
with  Mrs.  Vincent. 

I  learned,  of  course,  that  Miss  Leigh's  plan  for  a 
fresh  departure  in  life  had  become  widely  known 
through  her  mother's  freedom  of  talk,  and  I  did  what 
I  could  to  contradict  the  gossip.  Yet,  somehow,  the 
thing  haunted  me.  I  seemed  to  see  this  handsome, 
high-minded  girl  with  her  exquisite  neatness  and  deli- 
cacies of  sentiment  and  manner  amidst  the  scenes  and 
work  which  belong  to  the  life  of  the  student  of  med- 
icine. And  was  I  not  also  a  man  essentially  refined 
and  sensitive  ?  Had  it  hurt  me  ?  I  knew  it  had  not. 
But  it  is  terribly  true  that  a  man  may  do  and  be  that 


CHARACTERISTICS.  263 

which  is  for  him  inconsistent  with  his  ideal  of  the 
highest  type  of  womanhood.  He  may  puzzle  himself 
mad  with  the  logic  of  the  thing,  and  be  beaten  utterly 
by  its  poetry. 

At  last  I  found  leisure  to  see  Mrs.  Vincent.  "Do 
not  forget  St.  Glair's  tea,"  she  said;  "and  come  early. 
It  will  be  amusing.  I  really  made  him  do  it.  And  the 
Leighs.  Mrs.  Leigh  told  me  of  your  talk.  Do  you 
like  her?" 

"Yes  and  no.  May  I  speak?  She  did  seem  to  me 
hard  and — " 

"Oh,  only  in  talk.  If  one  has  any  real  trouble,  she 
is  angelic.  She  likes  you.  But,  then,  she  likes  suc- 
cess, as  I  do.  Yes,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  she 
would  make  an  admirable  mother-in-law." 

"I  should  be  pitiful  of  the  man,"  said  I. 

"No.  If  he  were  morally  weak  she  would  rule  him 
for  his  good,  because  in  all  worldly  ways,  and  in  busi- 
ness matters,  no  one  is  more  shrewd ;  and  if  he  were 
a  man  of  eminence  and  force,  she  would  give  up  once 
for  all.  She  has  no  real  fight  in  her,  none  at  all." 

I  smiled. 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh." 

"I  only  smiled." 

"Yes,  I  know."  And  she  set  her  large  eyes  on  me 
watchfully.  "Now,  suppose  by  any  chance  our  friend 
St.  Clair  were  to  lose  his  heart  to  my  friend  Miss 
Alice?" 

"Impossible." 

"Not  at  all.  He  comes  here  every  day  to  talk  about 
her.  Now,  with  Alice's  good  sense  and  efficiency,  and 
her  mother's — " 


264  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Pardon  me,  what?" 

"Oh,  her  mother's  desire  to  settle  Alice,  and  then 
Alice's  fortune.  Now  do  you  not  see  how  very  wise 
a  thing  it  would  be  ?" 

"Are  you  jesting?"  I  said,  seriously. 

"I  ?  Not  at  all.  I  lent  Alice  his  last  book,  and  she 
is  delighted  with  it.  Yesterday  she  quoted  the  whole 
of  that  poem  of  his  about  the  storm.  If  he  could  only 
hear  her  recite  it,  I — I  fancy  he  would — well — " 

"May  I  be  there  to  see ! " 

"And  he  is  so  handsome,"  she  returned. 

"The  dear  fellow  would  make  any  woman  hope- 
lessly wretched  in  a  year.  If  I  were  you  (if  you  are 
in  earnest,  which  I  doubt  a  little),  I  would  meddle  no 
more  with  this  matter.  I  never  thought  you  less  rea- 
sonable." 

"And  I  think  I  have  annoyed  you.  Why,  I  cannot 
quite  see.  Am  I  forgiven?" 

"What  is  there  to  forgive?  Let  us  talk  about  the 
doctor  matter.  I  told  her  what  I  thought." 

"All?" 

"No ;  not  all  There  are  things  one  cannot  discuss 
fully.  But  I  said  I  did  not  believe  it  was  best  either 
for  the  sick  or  for  society  for  women  to  be  doctors ; 
that,  personally,  women  lose  something  of  the  natural 
charm  of  their  sex  in  giving  themselves  either  to  this 
or  to  the  other  avocations  until  now  in  sole  possession 
of  man." 

"|And  I  am  to  think  that  you  mean  what  you  have 
last  said?" 

"Yes;  most  honestly." 

"My  own  mind  is  hardly  clear  about  it.     At  all 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  265 

events,  it  would  not  trouble  Alice  Leigh.  At  least,  I 
don't  think  it  would." 

"No ;  nor  any  other  woman,  nor  any  woman  doctor. 
They  fail  to  realize  what  they  have  lost.  The  man 
who  is  sensitive  to  womanly  ways  sees  it.  It  is  worse 
than  nursing  the  sick,  for  even  nursing  makes  some 
women  hard.  Were  you  with  us  when  we  discussed 
the  influence  of  avocations  upon  men?  Their  effect 
upon  women  is  yet  to  be  written." 

"I  think  Alice  will  study  medicine.  What  men 
think  of  her  will  in  no  way  disturb  her.  What  the 
one  man  thinks,  or  will  think,  may  be  quite  another 
thing.  I  believe  I  could  stop  her  short  by  showing 
her  some  duty  as  imperative.  And  you  laughed  at 
me,  too.  But  women  have,  over  and  over,  given  their 
lives,  and  lovingly  too,  to  reclaim  a  sot.  Why  were  it 
not  a  better  task  to  keep  straight  a  man  of  genius  like 
St.  Clair  ?  If  you  fail  to  convince  her — " 

"Fail !  I  do  not  mean  to  try.  Who  cares  whether 
one  pretty  woman  more  or  less  studies  medicine  ?  I 
talked  to  her  and  to  her  mother  because  you  desired 
it,  but,  really,  it  is  of  no  great  moment." 

Mrs.  Vincent  was  playing  with  a  paper-knife.  Now 
she  put  it  down  with  a  certain  resoluteness  in  the  small 
action,  and  returned :  "Of  course ;  that  is  all  true,  and 
let  us  drop  it.  What  is  Alice  to  me  or  to  you?" 

There  was  a  false  ring  in  her  phrase,  and  I  said, 
"You  do  not  mean  that." 

"Nor  you  what  you  said  just  now.  I  don't  under- 
stand you,  and  we  are  both  a  trifle  annoyed,  and  that 
is  the  reason  why  you  must  go  away.  And  remember 
to  be  early  at  St.  Glair's  5  we  must  make  it  a  success." 


266  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"AndtheLeighsT 

"They  will  comej  and  now  go  and  repent  of  your 
having  been  cross  to  Fred  Vincent's  wife." 

I  looked  at  her  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  but  you  were,  and  you  would  have  liked  to  be 
still  more  unpleasant.  Good-by." 

At  this  I  did  go,  and,  passing  a  florist's  shop,  re- 
pented in  the  form  of  a  basket  of  lilies  to  my  friend, 
and  ordered  a  bushel  of  cut  roses  to  be  sent  to  St. 
Glair's  on  the  Tuesday  after. 


XX. 


T  was  a  brilliant  snow-clad  day  near 
to  the  dusk  of  early  twilight  as  I 
met  Mrs.  Vincent  at  the  door  of  the 
studio,  a  little  before  the  hour  set 
for  St.  Glair's  tea. 

"  The  lilies  were  enough,"  she  said ; 
"but  never,  never  be  so  bad  to  me  again." 
"Never.  I  promise."  And  we  went  in. 
St.  Clair  had  opened  his  stores  of  Eastern  stuffs,  and 
all  the  dingy  chairs  and  lounges,  the  camp-stools  and 
benches,  in  the  molding-room  were  covered  with  bro- 
cades, priests'  robes,  and  superb  Moorish  rugs  and 
embroideries.  Two  of  the  statues,  now  finished  in 
marble,  were  uncovered,  but  not  that  of  the  Roman 
lady  striking  with  the  cestus.  Around  this  St.  Clair 
had  wrapped  a  vast  sheet  of  worn  purple  silk  heavy 
with  gold  fleurs-de-lis.  I  knew  that  he  was  proud  of 
this  work,  and  I  wondered  a  little  why  it  was  hidden, 
but  checked  myself  as  I  was  about  to  speak.  Whether 
Mrs.  Vincent  noticed  it  I  did  not  know.  Few  things 
escaped  her,  but  she  too  said  nothing. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  St.  Clair,  "do  you  like  it  all? 
Is  n't  it  pretty  ?  And  these  flowers  ?  Who  sent  them  ? 
And  what  shall  we  do  with  them?" 

"That  is  easy,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  and  began  to 


268  CHARACTERISTICS. 

throw  them  on  to  the  white  marble  bases  of  the 
statues,  and  upon  the  chairs,  and  around  the  tent  of 
heavy  crimson  stuffs,  within  which  St.  Glair's  athletic 
figure  of  Saul  leaned  in  profound  dejection  against 
the  tent-pole.  On  the  inner  walls  of  the  tent,  which 
filled  all  the  end  of  the  studio,  were  Eastern  weapons 
and  spears,  swords  and  shields,  of  which  he  had  a 
curious  collection.  When  we  had  finished,  St.  Clair 
drew  the  folds  of  the  tent  together,  and  Clayborne  and 
Vincent  presently  came  in. 

"And  you  really  have  come,"  said  St.  Clair. 

"I  ?"  said  Clayborne.  " Tea  unlimited,  and  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent ?  Of  course  I  came." 

"Why  did  you  not  uncover  the  Roman  lady?"  I 
said,  in  an  aside  to  the  sculptor. 

"I  do  not  know.     I  did  not" 

"It  is  not  the  nude  that  troubled  you?" 

"Oh,  no !  We  come  to  be  utterly  indifferent  as  to 
that  even  in  the  living,  and  wonder  at  the  feelings  of 
others  about  it." 

"Then  why  was  it?" 

"Would  you  uncover  it  ?    You  may." 

"No." 

"And  why  not?" 

"1  do  not  know." 

Then  his  guests  began  to  drop  in,  men  and  women, 
society  folks,  for  every  one  liked  him,  and  no  one  took 
his  social  failings  very  seriously.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  artists  too,  and  by  and  by,  to  my  amusement, 
Mrs.  Leigh  and  her  daughter.  What  Mrs.  Vincent 
had  said  to  the  elder  woman  I  never  knew,  but  she 
was  exceedingly  affable  to  her  host.  She  put  up  her 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  269 

eye-glasses,  and  with  a  glance  at  St.  Clair,  who  was 
faultlessly  dressed,  began  to  admire  everything  and  to 
be  largely  gracious  to  everybody.  As  to  St.  Clair,  he 
was  at  his  best.  His  Huguenot  blood  had  long  since 
lost  the  gravity  it  brought  out  of  persecution,  and 
there  were  only  the  French  grace  and  ease  along  with 
the  individualized  charm  which  made  him  always  a 
delightful  companion. 

Vincent  and  I,  of  course,  did  our  best,  and  a  happy 
company  wandered  about  and  appropriated  the  roses, 
drank  St.  Glair's  Russian  tea  and  Turkish  coffee  out 
of  tiny  cups,  and  chattered  around  the  statues,  or  rec- 
ognized medallions  of  familiar  faces. 

Mrs.  Leigh  soon  fell  to  my  share.  "Show  me  the 
things,"  she  said.  "I  had  no  idea  of  Mr.  St.  Glair's 
force  as  a  sculptor,  and  yet  I  remember  De  Yisne  in 
Paris  spoke  of  him  with  great  respect,  oh,  even  with 
enthusiasm.  And  what  lovely  stuffs !  Is  n't  he  rich  ?" 

I  glanced  at  the  woman.  "No;  he  is  as  wasteful 
as  a  boy.  He  could  easily  make  money.  He  does  not 
care  to." 

"What  a  pity.  He  needs  some  strong,  sensible 
woman." 

It  appeared  to  me  that  I  had  heard  this  before. 

"He  is  not  made  for  Benedict,  the  married  man." 
Then  I  repented.  "  It  might  depend  upon  the  woman. 
He  is  a  dear  old  fellow,  and  amiable  past  belief." 

"  I  have  great  faith  in  the  capacity  of  women  to 
manage  men."  This,  too,  did  not  sound  home-made, 
and  as  I  soon  learned,  Mrs.  Leigh  liked  to  repeat 
phrases  which  pleased  her.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "a 
chair,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  some  time  pray  talk  again 


270  CHARACTERISTICS. 

to  Alice  about  that  fad  of  hers.  An  old  doctor  has  so 
much  influence ;  not  that  you  are  so  very  old  either, 
but,  you  see,  as  your  cousin  I  can  take  liberties. 
Thanks.  Where  does  the  man  get  his  tea  T  I  must 
ask  him." 

Presently  I  got  away,  and  found  Miss  Leigh  talk- 
ing with  Clayborne.  She  was  saying,  "I  have  just 
finished  your  book  on  the  'Influence  of  the  Moor  on 
European  Civilization.'  We  were  in  Spain  two  years 
ago,  and  now  I  wish  I  had  read  it  earlier." 

"And  you  liked  it?"  inquired  Clayborne. 

"Liked  it  ?  I  liked  it  very  much.  I  envied  you  the 
power  to  do  it,  the  pleasure  of  the  search,  the  joy  there 
must  be  in  such  a  review  of  historic  or  heroic  lives. 
You  must  have  learned  Arabic  and  Spanish." 

"Yes ;  that  was  easy  enough.  But  I  ought  to  tell 
you  that  my  friend  North  says  my  defect  is  that  I  am 
not  a  worshiper  of  heroes." 

"No ;  I  saw  that  sometimes  you  were  cold,  when  I 
wanted  you  to  be  warm.  And  Dr.  North — I  should 
scarcely  take  him  for  a  worshiper  of  heroes.  You 
might  improve  under  criticism,"  she  added,  smiling. 

"I  will  remember  next  time,"  he  said  with  rare 
graciousness. 

At  this  moment  a  woman  asked  him  some  absurd 
question  about  the  statue  beside  us.  I  took  advantage 
of  it  to  call  Miss  Leigh's  attention  to  a  piece  of  em- 
broidery, and  began  to  wander  with  her  to  and  fro. 

"Tell  me  something,"  she  said,  "about  the  statues. 
These  Greeks.  What  a  poem  the  group  is ! " 

"Yes.  A  Western  city  has  ordered  it  for  a  memo- 
rial of  the  dead  it  lost  in  the  war." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  271 

She  looked  at  the  group  in  silence,  and  said  pres- 
ently, "  Did  you  know  my  elder  brother,  the  one  who 
feH  at  Antietam?" 

"Yes ;  I  knew  him  well.  I  may  say  he  was  of  earth's 
best." 

She  made  no  answer.  Her  eyes  were  full ;  her  face 
flushed.  I  said  nothing,  but  moved  quietly  away  to 
a  corner  as  if  to  show  her  some  rugs  from  Fez,  and 
talked  volubly  until,  looking  up,  she  said,  "Thank  you. 
And  now  the  statues.  What  is  the  one  covered  up?" 

"  It  is  a  Roman  lady.    St.  Clair  does  not  uncover  it." 

"Why?" 

"He  is  not  pleased  with  it." 

"  But  I  might  be.    I  shall  ask  Trim.    Here  he  comes." 

"No;  do  not.    It  is  disagreeable." 

"But  I  want  to  see  it,"  she  continued. 

"You  will  not,  must  not.     Pardon  me." 

"Must  not?"  And  she  looked  at  me  steadily  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  turned  to  St.  Clair.  I  was  annoyed. 
I  did  not  want  her  to  see  the  sensual,  cruel  abandon- 
ment  of  the  woman  to  the  brute  man's  pose. 

"What  is  your  covered  statue?"  she  said. 

"A  woman  aping  a  man.     A  woman  gladiator." 

"And  Dr.  North  does  not  like  women  to  imitate 
men.  If  I  want  to  see  it,  will  you  not  show  it?" 

"And  why  not?"  cried  St.  Clair,  gaily. 

"I  am  satisfied,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  want  to  see 
it,"  and  then  to  me,  aside,  "Was  I  very  wicked?" 

"No ;  I  did  not  think  you  would  persist.  Be  satis- 
fied with  your  victory." 

"I  am.  Be  generous,  and  never  remind  me  of  my 
weakness." 


272  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"It  was  strength,  not  weakness." 

"  I  am  half  sorry  already.  Would  you  have  thought 
worse  of  me  if  I  had  persisted  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  very  frank." 

"And you  do  not  like  that?  If  you  had  been  my — 
my  sister,  I  should  have  been  annoyed  with  St.  Clair 
and  much  more  imperative." 

"You  have  no  sister?" 

"No ;  I  am  alone  in  the  world.  Come,  I  shall  re- 
ward you.  Ask  St.  Clair  to  open  the  tent." 

"And  your  lordship  permits  that  ?" 

"Please  don't,  Miss  Leigh." 

She  regarded  me  with  a  briefly  attentive  glance,  but 
said  no  more  until  we  were  beside  the  sculptor. 

"I  should  like  to  see  your  tent,"  she  said. 

"You  can  ask  me  nothing  I  shall  not  be  glad  to  do," 
he  returned.  So  saying,  he  cast  loack  the  temVfolds, 
as  the  crowd  of  laughing  girls  fell  away  a  little. 

"It  is  'Saul  in  his  Tent/  in  his  madness,"  I  said. 

"But,  good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Miss  Primrose, 
"it's  a  Jew!" 

"And  was  he  not  a  Jew?"  said  Miss  Leigh. 

"Oh,  but  in  art!  A  Jew,  you  know.  Why,  the 
painters  don't  dare  to  make  Christ  a  Jew." 

"But  they  should,"  said  Alice  Leigh.  "A  Prince  of 
the  House  of  Judah.  And  this  face  is  typical.  And  a 
king  too.  One  misses  'the  ruby  courageous  of  heart.' 
If  some  one  would  only  read  us  '  Saul.' " 

We  went  on  talking,  not  missing  St.  Clair. 

"Hush!"  said  Miss  Primrose,  "what  is  that?  Oh. 
how  too  delicious  a  surprise ! ;;  For  now  we  heard  the 


CHARACTERISTICS.  273 

sound  of  strange  music,  and  St.  Clair  came  from 
behind  the  tent  in  sandals  and  a  white  burnoose. 
Whether  it  was  prearranged  or  not  I  do  not  know, 
as  he  always  declined  to  tell.  But  here  was  the  boy 
David,  with  a  small,  curious  harp,  his  face  all  aglow 
under  the  curling  brown  hair.  The  crowd  fell  back 
surprised,  and  St.  Clair  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  be- 
gan to  recite,  or  rather  to  chant,  "Saul,"  with  now  and 
then  a  strange  accompaniment  from  the  instrument. 
The  effect  of  the  eager  and  strong  young  face  matched 
well  the  intensity  of  dramatic  power  that  he  threw  into 
the  lines  of  that  wonderful  poem.  As  he  ended,  there 
was  silence,  and  then  he  cried  out  merrily  to  Miss 
Leigh :  "  Was  n't  it  absurd  ?  I  was  miles  in  the  desert 
already,"  and  the  applause  was  loud  and  long.  As  he 
spoke,  I  watched  Miss  Leigh.  She  regarded  him  with 
an  intense  interest,  her  face  flushing.  A  few  minutes 
after  it  was  over  he  came  back  to  us  in  his  own  garb. 

"How  good  it  was  that  you  liked  it,"  he  said  to  Miss 
Leigh. 

"And  did  I  ?    How  do  you  know ?" 

"I  felt  it.  I  saw.  If  you  had  not,  I  could  not  have 
done  it.  You  could  always  make  me  do  things  well." 

"Indeed.  You  do  me  honor.  You  have  made  me 
know  that  old  friend  better.  But  I  see  mama  is  sig- 
naling. I  must  go.  We  dine  out,  and  never  shall  I 
venture  on  an  afternoon  tea  again.  It  would  spoil  a 
perfect  memory.  Good-by." 

I  stood  an  instant  as  if  studying  the  "  Saul."  What 
annoyed  me?  Every  one  went  away  laughing  and 
joyous.  I  heard  Mrs.  Leigh  praising  it  all  to  St.  Clair. 
And  then  I  went  too. 


SAW  the  Leighs  now  and  then,  and 
heard  from  St.  Clair  that  he  was  mak- 
ing a  bas-relief  of  Miss  Alice.  This 
he  told  me  at  the  Vincents',  where 
were  the  Leighs  and  Miss  Primrose, 
whom  I  took  in  to  dinner,  and  who 
was,  as  Vincent  confided  to  me,  the  final  young  per- 
son selected  for  me  by  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"Is  n't  she  charming?"  said  my  hostess  in  a  quiet 
aside.  Her  dinner  was  prospering,  and  she  now  found 
time  to  turn  to  me.  "I  knew  you  would  like  her." 

"Like!"  I  said.  "She  is  adorable.  The  prettiest 
girl  I  know,  and  so  intelligent,  and  so — well,  so  full 
of  tact."  I  saw  in  Mrs.  Vincent  eyes  signs  of  dis- 
tressed failure. 

" Fred  has  been  talking.  I  never  have  a  fair  chance, 
and  you  are  getting  old,  too." 

"Will  she  be  like  'the  rath  primrose,'  etc.,  think  you  ? 
Oh,  well,  I  will  try  again,  but  just  now  De  Witt  is 
coaching  her  about  pigeon-shooting." 

"Look  at  St.  Clair  and  my  dear  Alice.  Was  there 
ever  a  more  charming  couple  1  Between  us,  now — do 
not  you  think — really — " 

"  I  f "  I  ejaculated.  "  Do  you  sincerely  want  to  marry 
her  to  that  dear  fellow  ?  And  you  who  care  for  both, 
and  know  him." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  275 

"You  are  possessed,  I  think,  about  our  poet.  He 
wants  just  such  a  person  to  make  him  as  staid  as — 
well,  as  you,  and  I  really  cannot  see  why  you  are 
called  upon  to  interfere." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Vincent,  did  I  say  I  would  interfere? 
And  how  could  I  ?  And  what  is  she  to  me  ?  A  mere 
acquaintance,  and  he  my  friend." 

"Very  true ;  but  you  can  be  so  irritating  sometimes. 
I  fancy  Mrs.  Leigh  is  quite  hurt  that  you  have  not 
been  near  them  for  so  long.  She  says  Alice  talks 
less  of  the  doctor  business  j  but  then  St.  Clair  gives 
her  little  leisure.  What  between  sittings,  and  visits, 
and  dinners,  the  man  has  become  madly  delighted  with 
society,  and  dance — I  thought  they  would  never  stop 
at  the  last  assembly." 

It  was  all  true.  I  rarely  saw  St.  Clair.  I  asked  him 
one  day  if  he  were  writing  verse.  He  said  no,  he  was 
living  poetry.  After  dinner  I  declined  Vincent's  cigar, 
and  went  up  to  join  the  women.  I  made  my  peace 
with  Mrs.  Leigh  very  easily. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "dear  Alice  is  quite  tranquil  now- 
adays ;  and  by  the  way,  Doctor,  we  are  of  kin,  you 
know,  and  I  may  ask  you,  entirely  in  confidence, — 
you  won't  consider  it  a  liberty, — what  kind  of  person 
is  Mr.  St.  Clair  ?  Of  course  he  is  a  genius,  and  wears 
strange  clothes,  but  not  always ;  and  occasionally  does 
surprise  one." 

"He  is  my  friend." 

"Oh,  of  course,  and  that  is  why  I  ask.  You  see,  I 
am  alone,  and  have  to  be  father  and  mother,  and  it  is 
always  well  to  look  ahead.  It  may  come  to  nothing. 
Are  his  habits  good?" 


276  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Really,"  I  said,  "you  must  ask  some  one  else." 

"Oh,  then,  you  mean  he  is  n't  a  man  you  can  talk 
about." 

"I  could  talk  about  him  all  night.  He  is  to  me  as 
a  brother.  Ah,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  I  added —  "No;  no 
coffee,"  and,  rising,  gave  her  my  seat.  "Ask  Mrs. 
Vincent,"  I  said,  and  strolled  to  the  corner  where  Miss 
Leigh  was  looking  over  some  prints. 

"You  are  a  stranger  of  late,"  she  said.  "And  all 
that  pleasant  friendliness  we  began  with — alas !  it  is 
squandered,  as  they  say  in  the  South." 

"I  am  a  busy  man,"  I  said,  "and  Mrs.  Vincent  tells 
me  you  are  as  busy  a  woman."  And  then,  feeling  cross 
and  vicious,  I  added :  "And  what  has  become  of  those 
grave  views  of  life  ?  Is  it  still  so  unsatisfying  ?" 

She  regarded  me  with  a  trace  of  surprised  curiosity, 
and  then  said:  "No;  I  am  as  I  was,  and  some  day 
you  will  let  me  tell  you  my  side.  I  listened  pretty 
patiently  to  yours.  I  suppose  that  you  men  who  live 
amidst  life's  most  serious  troubles  get  a  little — well, 
stolid  as  to  so  small  a  thing  as  how  a  woman  of  your 
society,  a  mere  girl,  is  disturbed  about  her  days,  and 
what  to  make  of  life,  or  whether  just  to  let  it  alone 
and  drift." 

"And  is  not  happiness  everything,  and  are  not  you 
happy  now?" 

"  Happy  ?  That  is  my  temperament ;  and  what  has 
that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Indeed,"  I  said,  "I  do  not  know." 

"Then  why  talk  so?"  she  added,  almost  sharply. 
"I  do  not  understand  you.  You  seemed  so  fair,  and 
now — " 


CHARACTERISTICS.  277 

"How  comes  on  the  rilievo?"  I  said,  abruptly  turn- 
ing the  talk. 

"Oh,  well  enough." 

"And  my  friend,  St.  Clair;  is  he  not  charming?" 

"I  do  not  know.  The  phrase  is  rather  strong.  He 
is  interesting.  I  like  him.  You  should  have  seen  his 
face  when  I  told  him  I  meant  to  be  a  doctor.  He 
looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  said,  Good  heavens ! 
and  would  I  cut  my  hair  short,  and  might  he  send  for 
me  if  he  were  ill,  and  would  I  be  expensive  as  a  medi- 
cal attendant?  He  was  certainly  very  amusing,  but 
it  takes  two  to  make  a  joke  as  well  as  a  quarrel,  and  I 
do  not  like  to  be  laughed  at  by  a  man  who — "  and  she 
paused. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "who—" 

"In  some  ways  I  am  more  of  a  man  than  he.  He  is 
undecided,  easily  led,  and  expects  every  one  to  indulge 
him." 

"I  assure  you  that  a  more  delightful  friend  no  one 
could  have." 

"Friend?    Yes,  certainly." 

I  looked  at  her.  A  little  flush  like  a  faint,  rosy  sun- 
set cloud  was  slowly  moving  over  her  cheek.  A  signal 
of  something.  Was  it  doubt,  or  annoyance,  or  what  ? 
I  began  to  feel  a  renewed  interest  in  the  woman  before 
me.  It  faded  when  I  ceased  to  see  her.  It  grew  up 
again  when  we  met  and  talked.  As  the  idea  crossed 
my  mind  that  Mrs.  Vincent's  schemes  might  this  time 
be  successful  I  had  a  sense  of  discomfort  which  I  did 
not  stay  to  analyze,  but  said  at  once : 

"Are  there  not  men  who  are  incomplete  without 
women?  I  most  honestly  think  that  some  noble- 


278  CHARACTERISTICS. 

minded  woman  could  be  the  complement  of  this  man's 
nature.  She  should  be  one  fixed  as  to  character,  reso- 
lute, tender,  and  absolutely  conscientious.  If  she  were 
beautiful,  and — well,  if  she  loved  him,  he  would  be  at 
his  best  always.  It  would  be  not  the  poor  task  of 
saving  a  worthless  man,  but  the  nobler  one  of  helping 
one  well  worth  the  helping." 
"Ah,"  she  laughed : 

"  If  he  be  not  in  word  and  deed 
A  Mng  of  nature's  highest  creed, 
To  be  the  chancellor  of  his  soul 
Were  any  but  a  happy  r&le. 

Some  women  love  and  learn.  Some  learn  and,  learn- 
ing, love.  It  seems  to  me  hard  to  understand  how  a 
\/  woman  could  with  knowledge  aforethought  undertake 
such  a  task.  Would  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  a  woman." 

"Well,  it  is  a  pretty  problem.  Imagine  yourself 
that  woman." 

"I  cannot.  But  men  and  women  may  marry  with 
clear  ideas  of  the  imperfections  of  the  being  they 
marry,  believing  that  to  love  all  things  are  possible." 

"I  see.  But  though  one  might  love  a  man  with  a 
bad  temper,  or  morose,  or  despotic,  one  might  with 
more  doubt  face  the  qualities  which  come  out  of  lower 
forms  of  moral  weakness.  But  how  serious  we  are. 
Why  not  invite  Susan  Primrose  to  the  post  of  con- 
science-bearer ?  Ah,  here  come  the  men  you  deserted." 

St.  Clair  joined  us,  and  presently  I  took  my  de- 
parture. 

Mrs.  Vincent  detained  me  a  moment.     "Really," 


CHARACTERISTICS.  279 

she  said  in  an  undertone,  "I  think  our  friend  is — well, 
and  my  gentle  Alice — you  laughed  at  me  about  it  at 
dinner,  but  now  it  is  serious,  I  think,  and  how  nice  it 
would  be.  If  Mrs.  Leigh  speaks  to  you,  do  be  careful." 

"She  has  spoken,"  I  said. 

"And  of  course  I  know  what  you  must  have  said." 

"  Said !     I  referred  her  to  you." 

"Ah,  indeed !     She  must  think  that  odd." 

"I  do  not  see  why,"  I  answered  shortly.  "But  I  am 
rather  tired  of  the  subject.  I  must  go.  Grood  night." 

"  One  moment,"  she  said.  "I  seem  to  have  annoyed 
you  j  I  certainly  do  not  want  to  do  so.  I  am  unlucky 
of  late.  I  can  see  no  reason  why  you  should  object  to 
being  asked  questions  as  to  your  friend  by  Mrs.  Leigh. 
It  is  plain  to  us  all  that  St.  Clair  is  in  love  with  Miss 
Leigh,  and  what  more  natural  than  her  mother's  desire 
to  know  something  definite  as  to  the  man." 

"And  how  can  I  tell  her  that  St.  Clair,  with  all  his 
fine  qualities,  is  unfit  to  be  a  husband?" 

"Then  why  shift  the  responsibility  of  an  answer 
upon  me?" 

"Because  you  think  otherwise.  I  shall  tell  him  ex- 
actly what  passed." 

"Perhaps  that  is  best.  It  may  really  be  of  use  to 
him.  His  character — " 

"Oh,  confound  his  character !  I  beg  pardon,  I  did 
not  mean  that ;  I  was  rude.  I  must  speak  out  frankly 
to  Mrs.  Leigh,  or  not  speak  at  all,  and  I  prefer  the 
latter  course.  I  would  rather  not  discuss  it  further." 

"Well,  as  you  please.  Good  night.  You  are  very 
cross  and  most  unreasonable." 

19 


XXII. 

HAD  never  before  been  so  vexed 
with  Mrs.  Vincent.  She  was  apt  to 
meddle  gently  with  the  affairs  of 
other  folks's  hearts,  and  sometimes 
to  retreat  bewildered  or  dismayed  at 
the  consequences.  Moreover,  she  was 
subject  to  acute  attacks  of  social  remorse,  and  suf- 
fered out  of  all  proportion  to  the  greatness  of  the 
crime.  I  must  say  that  I  am  not  an  easy  quarreler. 
I  am  troubled  deeply  by  a  cold  phrase,  or  a  hasty  word, 
and  lie  awake  repentant  upon  the  rack  of  self-exami- 
nation. Therefore  it  was  that  our  two  notes  of  self- 
accusation  and  apology  crossed  each  other  next  day. 
She  said : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  was  persistent,  and  perhaps  —  yes,  I 
was  unreasonable  last  night.  I  mean  unreasonably  persistent. 
And  it  may  be  that  I  am  quite  wrong.  Fred  says  I  am,  which 
will  perhaps  comfort  you.  For  although  I  hate  to  be  wrong, 
I  hate  more  to  be  told  I  am,  even  by  Fred.  I  do  not  under- 
stand you,  but  that  does  not  make  me  grieve  less  at  having 
annoyed  or  hurt  you.  As  to  Alice  and  St.  Clair,  I  shall  never 
say  another  word,  and  if  I  were  not  afraid  of  a  pledge,  I  would 
vow  never  to  be  kind  to  man  or  woman  again  —  unless  the  man 
is  the  friend  to  whom  now  I  excuse  myself.  And  if  it  only  were 
you.  ANNE  VINCENT. 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  281 

There  was  also  a  package,  which  was  a  first  edition 
of  "The  Urn  Burial/'  and  inside  was  written  " I  am  so 
sorry.  12.30P.M.  A.  V." 

And  as  for  me,  I  had  written:  "I  was  rude  last 
night.  Pardon  me." 

Then,  the  day  being  Sunday,  I  sulked  over  my  mis- 
deeds, and  went  to  see  St.  Clair.  I  found  him  idling 
in  his  studio  before  the  bas-relief  of  Miss  Leigh's  head. 

"Oh,  come  in,"  he  said.  "Jolly  cold,  clear  day,  is  n't 
it?  Had  two  hours  on  the  ice  at  six  this  morning. 
Is  n't  this  a  success  ?" 

It  was,  and  I  said  so  shortly. 

"What  's  the  matter?"  he  queried  of  a  sudden. 
"You  look  as  you  do  when  I  have  been  in  mischief. 
By  all  the  gods,  I  have  been  a  good  boy  of  late.  I 
gave  Clayborne  money  to  invest  for  me  last  week.  I 
have  n't  been  to  a  beer-garden  for  days.  I  have  even 
paid  my  dinner-calls,  idiotic  custom.  What  is  it?" 

"Nothing.    I  have  to  say  something  unpleasant." 

"Then  get  it  over.  I  loathe  suspense,  as  the  fellow 
said  when  he  was  about  to  be  hanged." 

"Mrs.  Leigh  has  asked  me  to  give  her  some  idea 
of  your  character.  Oh,  confound  it !  how  stiff  that 
sounds.  She  thinks,  as  we  all  do,  that  you  are  in  love 
with  Miss  Alice,  and,  like  a  straightforward  mama, 
says,  'Is  this  a  good  man?  Will  he  be  the  husband 
she  ought  to  have?'" 

"Well,  old  man,  what  then?" 

"Oh,  simply  this:  Do  you  want  to  marry  Miss 
Leigh  ?  If  so,  I  must  go  on.  If  not,  you  are  doing 
her  a  wrong,  and  I  need  say  no  more  than  that." 

"Is  n't  she  noble-looking?"  he  replied.     "Just  look 


282  CHARACTERISTICS. 

at  that  head ;  the  color  of  the  hair ;  the  tranquil  kind- 
liness of  the  face;  and  the  proud  prettiness  of  the 
neck." 

"Do  you  love  her?"  I  said,  abruptly. 

"Oh,  how  do  I  know?" 

"Are  you  really  a  child,  St.  Clair  ?  Yes  or  no.  How 
is  it  with  you  ? " 

Then  I  looked  from  him  steadily  at  the  medallion. 
I  could  not  tell  why  it  so  touched  me,  but,  as  I  looked, 
my  eyes  filled.  I  was  puzzled  at  my  own  causeless  emo- 
tion. Meanwhile,  for  this  brief  moment,  he  was  silent, 
and  then  his  face,  as  I  turned  to  it,  took  on  a  look  I  well 
knew  of  peculiar  sweetness  as  he  said  gently,  "Would 
you  like  me  to  love  her?" 

"No,"  I  said. 

"And  why  not  ?"  he  went  on,  touching  the  clay  here 
and  there. 

"Because  you  would  make  a  bad  husband.  You 
would  in  a  year  break  her  heart.  You  would  not  want 
to.  She  is  a  woman  resolute,  proud,  and  firm  as  to  her 
beliefs,  and  the  duties  to  which  they  bind  her.  You 
have  no  creed.  You  are  amoral,  not  immoral.  You 
would  hurt  her  all  the  time,  and  at  last  lose  her  love 
and — and — " 

"Her  respect.  Do  Hose  yours  sometimes?  Yes,  I 
know  I  do ;  and  you  mean  that  you  can  fail  to  respect 
me  and  yet  cherish  my  friendship,  but  that  with  her 
love  must  go  with  respect.  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  astonished. 

"And  you  could  not,  would  not,  tell  her  mother  all 
this,  and  you  came  to  say  so  to  me?" 

"That  is  it* 


CHARACTERISTICS.  283 

"Am  I  a  bad  boy?" 

"  Oh,  don't,"  I  said.  "  It  all  hurts  me.  I  see  trouble 
ahead." 

"And  you  like  her.  She  is  your  friend,  and  so  am 
I.  I  would  have  been  a  weak  fool  under  like  circum- 
stances, and  praised  you  through  thick  and  thin,  right 
or  wrong.  Pretty  head,  is  n't  it  1  Would  you  like  a 
copy  of  it  ?  I  '11  send  you  one." 

"My  dear  St.  Clair,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
How  can  you  trifle  so?  How  do  you  suppose  she 
would  like  that,  or  Mrs.  Leigh?" 

"Hang  Mrs.  Leigh." 

"With  all  my  heart  5  but  let  us  have  no  nonsense 
about  this  matter — I  mean,  as  to  this  head.  As  to 
the  rest,  I  have  done  my  duty  as  to  a  friend.  Go  on, 
or  stop.  It  does  not  concern  me.  I  am  free  of  re- 
sponsibility." I  was  vexed  with  his  indecision,  and 
dissatisfied  with  the  role  I  was  playing. 

"And  what  do  you  advise?    Now,  really." 

"How  childish  you  are,  St.  Clair."  I  shrank  from 
saying :  "  Give  her  up.  You  are  unfit  for  her.  Women 
do  not  resist  you.  You  were  made  to  please  for  the 
hour,  not  the  year."  I  went  on  at  last  quickly:  "If 
you  are  honestly  in  love,  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Go 
on,  and  God  help  her  and  you.  Perhaps  he  may,  and 
time  may  show  what  a  fool  I  have  been." 

"Frankly,  Owen,"  he  returned,  "is  it  of  me  or  of  her 
you  think?" 

"Of  both." 

"Of  whom  most?" 

"Oh,  what  matters  it?    I  have  said  enough." 

"  Too  much  or  too  li ttle.     But  do  not  think  I  am  not 


284  CHARACTERISTICS. 

thankful,  and  more  thoughtful  than  you  suppose.  Let 
us  drop  it.  I  hear  that  you  may  go  to  Charleston 
about  this  yellow  fever." 

"Yes;  I  am  asked  to  go  South  on  a  Government 
commission  to  study  the  outbreak  they  have  had.  I 
think  I  shall  go.  I  saw  it  once  before,  and,  for  vari- 
ous reasons,  no  one  else  is  quite  as  well  fitted  for  this 
not  over-pleasant  task." 

"It  is  risky." 

"Very." 

"I  would  n't  go.    What 's  the  use  ?" 

"It  is  a  simple  duty.  I  should  like  to  go  away  for  a 
while,  and  it  fits  in  nicely." 

"Darn  duty." 

I  laughed,  "Ah,  if  darning  duty  mended  matters, 
how  easy  a  place  were  this  world  to  live  in,"  and  we 
parted. 


xxin 

iT  I  had  said  was  true.  I  was  out 
of  spirits.  My  work  bored  me,  and, 
as  has  been  seen,  I  was  peevish  and 
irritable. 

The  next  evening  I  was  at  Mrs. 
Leigh's.  They  were  alone — or  rather 
Miss  Alice  was — for  a  time. 
"Good  evening,"  I  said.     "I  am  very  busy,  but  I 
have  come  in  just  for  a  little  talk,  and  to  say  good-by." 
"  Yes ;  Mr.  St.  Clair  told  us  this  morning.    He  thinks 
it  quite  needless — your  going,  I  mean." 

"Needless?  He  knows  nothing  at  all  about  it.  A 
man  of  experience  is  wanted,  and  I,  unmarried  and 
without  ties,  am  of  the  otherwise  available  men  the 
most  fit  for  it." 

"But  you  have  friends,  and  sometimes  those  ties  are 
strong." 
"Yes,  very." 

"And  is — is  the  risk  great?  You  have  never  had 
the  fever.  Is  there  no  one  who  has  had  it  who  can 
go?" 

"No  one.    And  I  want  a  change,  too.    At  times  life 

wearies  one.  You  ask  why,  and  I  cannot  tell.   A  fresh 

duty,  and  absence,  winds  one  up,  and  we  go  on  again." 

"And  is  your  life  wearisome  ?    You,  who  live  for 


286  CHARACTERISTICS. 

others,  who  are  dear  to  so  many,  the  rich,  the  poor. 
Ah,  you  smile,  but  you  know  we  are  friends,  and  I 
manage  to  learn  all  about  my  friends." 

A  sudden  impulse  mastered  me.  "If  you  were  I, 
would  you  go?" 

" Go ! n  she  exclaimed.     "Without  a  doubt" 

"And  you  advise  me  to  go  ?" 

"I  am  only  a  girl,"  she  replied. 

"You  are  my  friend." 

"Thank  you;  would  one  say  to  a  soldier,  'Stay  at 
home  ? '  Yours  is  a  nobler  calling.  I  do  not  think  the 
world  has  bonds  would  hold  you  back." 

"That  was  kindly  said  and  true.  But  you  overrate 
me, — I  mean  as  to  what  you  said  a  moment  ago, — 
and  to  be  overestimated  always  humiliates  me.  I  shall 
think  of  what  you  have  said,  and,  please  God,  will  come 
home  safe  and  happier." 

"You  ought  to  be  happy.  It  seems  strange  to  me 
that  you  are  not.  You  cannot  be  compassed  about 
with  doubts  as  I  am,  and  see  duties  you  must  not  ac- 
cept, or  a  path  you  may  not  tread." 

"And  are  you  still  tormented?" 


"And  why  not  go  on?" 

"It  may  appear  to  you  odd,  but  only  one  statement 
of  yours  really  disturbed  my  resolution." 

"And  that?" 

"The  idea  that — that  a  woman  might  lose  in  the 
work  I  look  to  certain  of  those  nameless  graces,  those 
tendernesses,  which  seem  to  me  so  much  of  her  honest 
property." 

"I  think  so,  and  I  have  seen  you  often.     We  have 


CHARACTERISTICS.  287 

come  to  be  friends.  Now,  suppose  that  you  promise 
me  you  will  not  go  on  in  this  matter  till  I  come  back. 
I  have  much  to  say  about  it,  and  no  time  in  which  to 
say  it.  I  leave  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes;  but  one  word  more.  If  I  never  come  back, 
of  course  it  releases  you." 

"It  releases  me  ?    It  releases  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  Ah,  Mrs.  Leigh,  good  evening,"  I  said,  rising. 
"I  came  to  say  good-by." 

"Yes;  I  saw  it  in  the  paper,  and  Mr.  St.  Clair  told 
us.  I  suppose  it  is  not  very  dangerous,  and  then,  if 
it  is,  you  are  a  doctor,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  business 
after  all.  If  you  see  the  Temples,  remember  me  to 
them.  But  they  must  have  gone,  of  course." 

"When  do  you  return?"  said  Miss  Alice,  who  had 
been  watching  her  mother  with  a  grave  face. 

"In  a  month,  I  hope." 

"If  you  see  any  nice  feather  fans,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh, 
"do  spend  a  few  dollars  for  me.  There  are  red  ones, 
really  charming." 

"Charming?  What  is?"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  enter- 
ing with  her  husband.  "We  missed  your  call,  and 
Fred  and  I  have  been  to  see  you.  You  leave  to-mor- 
row, your  note  said.  I  do  not  call  that  charming." 

"Oh,  it  was  fans,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh.  "Dr.  North  is 
to  bring  me  some  nice  feather  fans." 

"Indeed!  Bring  me  nothing  but  yourself.  I  am 
horribly  troubled  about  you.  It  recalls  our  talk  about 
fear.  Are  you  ever  afraid  of  disease  ?" 

"  I  ?  No — yes.  I  have  always  had  a  slight,  a  vague 
dread  of  this  especial  malady.  I  think  I  said  so.  I 


288  CHARACTERISTICS. 

find  that  physicians  often  have  some  such  single  pet 
fear." 

"Like  a  soldier's,"  said  Miss  Leigh,  looking  up  at 
me.  "That  alone  would  make  you  go."  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent glanced  at  her  curiously. 

"We  won't  talk  of  it,"  said  Vincent.  "Write  soon 
and  as  often  as  you  can." 

"Oh,  not  to  me ! "  said  Mrs.  Leigh.  "Is  n't  it  dan- 
gerous?" 

"No,"  I  said,  laughing.  "And  now  good-by.  And 
this  day  month,  Miss  Alice.  Good  night." 


xxrv. 

F  my  really  perilous  commission  I 
have  nothing  to  say  except  that  it 
brought  some  empty  honors,  and 
cost  my  colleague  a  sharp  attack  of 
the  fever.  This  detained  me  longer 
in  Charleston,  and  I  got  home  early 
in  May,  tired  out  with  nursing  and  anxiety.  I  had 
heard  often  from  home,  but,  until  a  week  before  my 
departure,  nothing  of  moment.  Clayborne  from  time 
to  time  sent  me  large  sums  to  be  used  among  the  poor 
of  the  pest-stricken  city.  He  wrote  that  of  course  it 
was  all  due  to  bad  hygiene  and  carelessness,  but  that 
I  might  like  to  spend  some  of  his  spare  cash,  and  thus 
excused  in  his  cynical  way  acts  of  unusual  generosity. 
A  week  before  my  return  came  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Vincent. 

Our  friend  St.  Clair  [she  wrote]  has  been  at  his  wicked  worst 
of  late.  He  told  Fred  last  month  that  he  had  been  gambling 
in  stocks,  and  was  in  debt.  The  speculations,  Fred  says,  were 
simply  absurd.  I  asked  him  why  he  did  it,  and  he  replied  that 
it  amused  him.  I  cannot  make  him  out  of  late.  I  ought  to  say 
that  Mr.  Clayborne  at  once  paid  some  thousands  for  him,  re- 
marking that  it  was  so  comfortable  to  make  a  fool  of  one's  self 
now  and  then.  I  said  that  St.  Clair  puzzled  me.  He  has  shut 
up  his  studio,  declined  recklessly  to  complete  his  contracts,  and 
really  told  Mrs.  Leigh,  to  her  disgust,  that  he  could  not  finish 
the  relief  of  Alice's  face,  because  work  bored  him.  I  do  not 
think  he  has  been  near  the  Leighs  since  you  left.  It  is  too  an- 


290  CHARACTERISTICS. 

noying ;  I  shall  never  try  to  help  anybody  again.  I  am  furious 
at  the  thought  of  how  right  you  were.  If  you  bring  Mrs.  Leigh 
any  fans  I  will  never  speak  to  you  any  more. 

I  reopen  this  letter  to  tell  you  an  astonishing  piece  of  news. 
St.  Clair  came  in  on  us  to-day,  and  would  we  tell  him  when  you 
would  be  at  home.  Fred  said,  "Next  week."  Upon  which  he 
was  so  sorry,  because  he  was  to  sail  for  Europe  in  four  days, 
and  gone  he  has.  The  new  statue  for  Cleveland  has  to  be  cast 
in  Paris.  I  do  not  believe  it.  At  first  I  suspected  that  Alice 
had  said  "No,"  but  this  is  not  so,  for,  as  I  said,  he  has  not  been 
near  her,  and  the  last  time  they  were  here  they  were  on  pleas- 
ant terms  enough.  I  am  dying  to  ask  Alice,  but  she  is  hardly  the 
girl  to  put  questions  to,  and,  besides  —  however,  you  never  ap- 
preciated her  duly,  and  I  do  not  want  to  bore  you. 

She  told  me  to-day  that  he  had  called  before  he  left  (his  first 
visit  in  a  month)  and  that  he  did  nothing  but  talk  about  you, 
which  amused  me. 

Fred  sends  his  love,  and  I  am  as  always, 

Your  friend,        A.  V. 

P.  S.  I  hope  that  St.  Clair  wrote  to  you,  but  I  do  not  believe 
he  did.  That  man  is  capable  of  any  virtue  or  any  vice.  Do 
share  with  me  my  exasperation. 

This  letter  gave  me  much  to  think  over  as  I  gladly 
left  the  roses  and  jasmines  of  the  luckless  town,  and 
rolled  away  northward.  I  was  annoyed  at  St.  Clair 
for  the  hundredth  time,  but  it  was  like  being  vexed 
with  some  charming,  thoroughly  spoiled  girl,  and  of 
course  I  wrote  to  him. 

Arriving  late  I  found  a  note  from  Mrs.  Leigh,  which 
perplexed  me. 

She  said : 

I  am  so  glad  of  your  return,  because  I  need  you.  We  have 
had  Dr.  Simpson  since  our  return,  but  really  he  has  not  the 
least  respect  for  my  judgment,  and  if  I  do  not  know  the  consti- 
tutions of  my  own  children,  I  should  like  to  know  who  does  or 


CHARACTERISTICS.  291 

can.     Alice  is  not  at  all  well.     She  does  not  know  I  send  for 
you,  but  do  come  soon.     Of  course,  it  is  a  drawback  to  have  a 
single  man,  but  then  you  are  a  relative,  and  no  longer  young.   ^ 
[I  was  just  thirty-seven.]     Come  soon,  etc. 

I  dropped  the  note  as  I  stood  j  picked  it  up ;  read  it 
again,  and  went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Vincent's,  although  it 
was  as  late  as  11  P.  M.  Mrs.  Vincent  had  just  left  her 
husband.  After  we  had  exchanged  warm  greetings,  I 
said,  "Won't  you  ask  Mrs.  Vincent  to  come  down- 
stairs ?  And,  Fred,  let  me  see  her  alone  a  moment ;  I 
want  a  little  advice." 

" Really,"  he  said,  "I  ought  to  charge  for  these  con- 
sultations. St.  Clair  was  at  it  last  week.  Mrs.  Vincent 
makes  a  good  average  for  all  easy-tongued  women  by 
secretiveness  quite  exasperating." 

"After  the  consultation,"  I  said,  "I  will  consider  the 
fee." 

"It  ought  to  be  large.  What  do  you  get  for  being 
rung  up  at  midnight?" 

"When  you  are  through  perhaps  you  will  ask  Mrs. 
Vincent  if  she  has  gone  to  bed." 

"She  has  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  entering.  "I 
heard  your  voice,  and  really,  I  only  came  down  to  say 
how  glad  and  thankful  I  am.  You  look  tired,  but 
then — it  was  a  fine  thing  to  do.  I  was  proud  of  you. 
I  could  not  do  it  5  my  friend  could,  and  oh,  I  liked — 
liked  it  well,  and  so  did  Fred.  He  has  bored  me  to 
death  about  you,  and  now  you  are  back,  and — and  I 
thank  God." 

She  had  my  two  hands  while  she  spoke,  and  was  a 
little  tearful  as  she  ended,  being  nothing  if  not  enthu- 
siastic as  concerned  her  friends. 


292  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"I  cannot  weep,"  said  Fred,  "but  you  are  very- 
welcome." 

"You  men  are  horrid.    I  shall  leave  you." 

"No ;  it  is  Fred  who  will  go,  and  you  will  stay." 

"A  consultation,  Anne.  You  will  find  me  in  the 
library." 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "this  is  altogether 
too  delightful.  What  can  I  do  for  you?  It  is  so 
pleasant  to  know  that  I  can  give  you  anything.  But 
tell  me  about  Charleston.  No,  not  now ;  another  time. 
What  is  it  that  I  can  do  ?" 

Now  that  I  was  into  this  grave  consultation,  I  be- 
gan to  distrust  the  doctor  and  myself.  I  reflected 
that  I  had  not  enough  considered  the  matter ;  that,  in 
short,  I  was  a  f ooL  As  a  result,  I  put  off  the  fatal 
moment. 

"Presently  we  will  talk,"  I  said;  "but  first  tell  me 
all  about  everybody — all  my  friends." 

"Mr.  Clayborne  has  been  as  fidgety  as  a  fish  on  a 
bank.  I  think  he  loves  you  best  of  any  one  on  earth 
— better  even  than  Clayborne.  What  is  your  trick  of 
capturing  people?" 

"How  can  you  ask?  I  am  your  friend;  you  must 
know.  And  St.  Clair  ?  Of  all  his  crazes,  this  is  the 
queerest.  To  love  a  man  who  does  everything  you 
don't  expect,  and  nothing  that  you  do  expect — alas! 
it  is  hard  on  men,  and  on  a  woman  harder.  But  I 
suppose  the  fancy  for  Miss  Leigh  is  over,  or  has  it 
gone  to  wreck  ?  How  has  it  ended  ?" 

"How  cool  you  are,"  she  replied ;  "and  how  easy  to 
call  it  a  fancy,  and  what  has  come  of  it.  You  may 
know  as  well  as  I." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  293 

"No,  no ;  but  I  must  not  invite  you  to  violate  a  pro- 
fessional confidence." 

"  Indeed,  it  is  useless." 

"Oh,  then  you  do  know?" 

"I  did  not  say  so.  And  is  all  this  because  you 
came  here  to  tell  me  something,  and  now  repent  a 
little?" 

"Good  gracious !  what  a  woman !     How  is  Fred ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well.  And  if  you  wish  to  put  off  what 
you  have  to  say,  I  shall  go  to  bed  at  once.  I  am — " 

"No ;  it  may  as  well  be  now  as  at  any  time." 

"Ah,  that  is  better." 

"Read  that." 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Leigh  wants  your  advice  about  Alice.  I 
am  so  glad.  I  advised  her  to  send  this  very  morning. 
You  know  I  cannot  have  you  myself,  but  I  want  every 
one  else  to  have  you,  and  now  I  shall  be  easy,  quite 
easy,  about  Alice.  It  is  only  that  she  is  looking  pale." 

"But  I  do  not  mean  to  go.  You  know  I  am  only 
willing  to  go  in  consultation.  I  do  not  want  practice. 
I—" 

"But  this !     Oh,  this  is  different." 

"Very.  And  you  who  got  me  into  this  scrape  must 
get  me  out  of  it.  I  do  not  know  how  you  will  do  it,  but 
you  must  manage  it,  because  I  do  not  intend  to  go." 

"You  cannot  mean  that?" 

"Yes.  Tell  Mrs.  Leigh  that  I  chanced  in,  and  that 
I  do  not  take  cases  outside  of  my  house.  Anything 
you  like." 

"But  it  is  not  true;  and  after  all,  it  is  I  who  ask 
you  to  go,  and  imagine  my  making  an  excuse  so  ludi- 
crous as  that  to  a  woman  of  the  world  like  Mrs.  Leigh. 


294  CHAKACTERISTICS. 

I  son.  quite  willing  to  do  anything  sane  for  you ;  but 
this!  What  is  your  real  reason?  You  do  have  a 
reason  for  most  actions." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  that  hard  old  woman.  Surely  one 
may  choose  one's  patients." 

"Assuredly.  But  write  and  say  so.  Why  come  to 
me?" 

"Then  I  shall  fall  ill.     I  simply  will  not  go." 

"I  am  sorry;  I  am  more  than  that — and  after  I 
took  so  much  trouble.  I  am — well,  just  a  little  hurt." 

"But  I  would  not  annoy  you  for  the  world." 

"Well,  that  is  a  strong  phrase.    Why  do  you  ?" 

"I  cannot  be  Miss  Leigh's  physician." 

"Ah,  it  is  Alice  then?" 

"Yes ;  it  is  Miss  Leigh.     Cannot  you  understand  ?" 

"  I  ?    No.    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Mean !     Cannot  you  see  that  I  love  Alice  Leigh  ?" 

"What  a  fool  I  am !  Oh,  you  dear,  delightful  man ! 
The  thing  I  have  dreamed  about.  And  now  I  see  it 
all.  A11T  And  how  long  has  it  been  ?  And  does  she 
know?" 

"I  think — I  am  sure  not.  And  one  favor  I  must 
ask.  It  is  that  neither  by  word  nor  sign  do  you  be- 
tray me." 

"And  I  must  not  help  you?" 

"No." 

"And  as  to  Mrs.  Leigh,  you  are  quite  too  tired  to 
see  patients.  You  are  not  well.  You  wished  to  leave 
it  to  me  to  explain,  rather  than  to  have  to  say  ab- 
ruptly in  a  note  that  you  cannot  come.  And  that 
was  so  nice  of  you.  But  you  will  dine  here  with  Alice 
to-morrow?" 


CHARACTERISTICS.  295 

"Indeed,  I  will  not." 

"But  I  must  tell  Fred?" 

"No." 

"Then  good  night.    I  hate  yon,  and  I  am  so  glad." 

When  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Vincent  it  was  only  with 
a  sense  of  my  own  difficulties,  and  a  desire  to  find  a 
way  out,  but  with  no  clear  idea  of  how  it  was  to  be 
done.  The  note  had  of  a  sudden  set  me  face  to  face 
with  a  grave  fact  in  my  life.  I  cared  deeply  for  a 
woman,  and  had  never  meant  to  do  so  again.  At  first 
this  self-knowledge  humiliated  me,  and  seemed  disloyal 
to  an  ideal  I  had  loved  and  lost.  I  am  sure  that  most 
deep  affection  is  of  gradual  growth.  I  am  as  sure  that 
the  discovery  of  it  as  something  victorious  over  mem- 
ory, prejudices,  resolutions  is  often  sudden  and  sur- 
prising. It  was  so  to  me.  I  recoiled  from  the  prac- 
tical issue  of  becoming  this  woman's  physician,  and  in 
the  recoil,  and  in  the  swift  self-examination  which  fol- 
lowed, I  knew  that  I  loved  her. 

I  walked  away  but  half  pleased  with  myself.  It 
was  plain  that  I  had  not  dealt  fairly  as  to  my  friend, 
or  perhaps  with  him,  and  yet  I  had  meant  to  do  so.  I 
had  had,  as  the  Indians  say,  two  hearts  about  it,  or, 
as  we  say,  had  been  half-hearted.  I  laughed  as  I 
thought  that  half  a  heart  had  been  an  organ  incom- 
petent to  carry  on  the  nutrition  either  of  love  or 
friendship. 

At  last  I  reached  my  home,  and  sat  down  with  a 
counseling  cigar  to  think  it  all  over.  Emotion  had 
clouded  my  mind.  Now  it  became  more  or  less  clear 
to  me.  St.  Clair  had  seen  through  me  as  I  had  not 
seen  through  myself.  My  cigar  went  out.  I  relighted 
20 


296  CHARACTERISTICS. 

it.    It  was  rank  to  the  taste.    I  threw  it  away.    It 
was  like  some  other  things  in  life. 

As  I  rose  to  go  to  bed  I  turned  over  the  letters  on  the 
table.  There  was  one  from  the  citizens  of  Charleston ; 
warm  thanks  for  a  great  service — Alice  Leigh  would 
like  that.  Beneath  it  was  one  from  Paris  in  St.  Glair's 
well-known  and  careless  hand.  I  read  it  as  I  stood : 

DEAR  OWEN:  Sorry  to  have  missed  you.  I  am  busy  here  with 
my  new  studio  and  the  statue  group  for  Cleveland.  I  want  you 
to  pay  the  arrears  due  for  rent  in  my  old  den  in  Blank  street, 
and  have  what  is  worth  keeping  stowed  somewhere.  My  remem- 
brances to  the  Leighs.  I  left  Miss  Leigh's  rilievo  in  the  front 
room.  Keep  it.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  eyes  are  quite  correct. 
The  upper  lids  drop  straight,  or  rather  in  a  gentle  curve,  from 
the  brows;  it  gives  a  look  of  great  purity  to  the  upper  part 
of  the  face ;  the  peculiarity  is  quite  rare,  but  is  to  be  seen  in 
Luini's  frescos.  In  fact,  the  type  is  medieval.  The  slight  for- 
ward droop  of  the  neck  is  pretty,  but  not  classically  perfect  as 
to  form.  Also,  the  head  of  my  charming  model  is  rather  large 
for  the  shoulders,  which  are  a  trifle  out  of  proportion  to  the 
weight  of  the  head. 

Write  me  soon  and  often.  I  shall  not  answer,  but  I  shall  in- 
tend to  do  so.  Love  to  the  Vincents  and  to  the  historic  giant 
from  your  friend,  VICTOR. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  in  thought  with  the  letter  in 
my  hand.  Then  I  read  it  again  with  care.  Had  St. 
Clair  deliberately  sacrificed  himself  to  me  ?  Was  his 
devotion  to  Alice  Leigh  only  the  expression  of  his 
adoration  of  an  unusual  type  of  human  beauty?  I 
had  before  seen  attacks  of  this  passionate  idolatry. 
Had  he  become  satisfied  that  marriage  was  a  contract 
he  could  not  honestly  enter  upon  ?  That  would  have 
been  unlike  the  man.  I  was  exceedingly  perplexed. 


XXY. 


HE  next  day  I  called  on  Clayborne, 
but  found  him  absent,  and  toward 
noon  wrote  to  Mrs.  Vincent  that  I 
hoped  to  find  her  alone  that  evening. 
The  enigma  of  last  night  was  no 
clearer  in  the  morning.  A  hasty 
note  bade  me  feel  sure  that  she  would  be  at  home 
about  ten,  and  of  course  she  would  take  care  that  we 
should  not  be  interrupted.  After  that,  and  until  I 
could  talk  to  Mrs.  Vincent,  I  resolutely  put  my  prob- 
lem in  a  corner,  and  tried  to  forget  it.  But  despite 
my  control  it  turned  every  now  and  then  like  a  bad 
child  and  made  faces  at  me,  so  that  I  had  an  uneasy 
and  very  restless  day. 

I  found  Mrs.  Vincent  alone,  and  quickly  saw  that 
this  gracious  actress  was  on  for  a  large  role,  but  just 
what  was  not  clear  to  me.  The  room  had  a  rather 
unusual  look.  The  easy-chairs  were  not  in  their 
places.  A  crimson  mass  of  velvet  heavy  with  Eastern 
phantasies  of  color  hung  in  stately  folds  over  the  far 
end  of  the  grand  piano.  I  knew  it  well  as  one  of  St. 
Glair's  wildest  and  most  extravagant  purchases,  the 
fruitful  text  of  sad  sermons  by  the  friend  whom  the 
naughty  poet  called  Rev.  Dr.  Clayborne.  St.  Clair  had 
sent  it  to  Mrs.  Vincent  the  night  he  left  —  a  royal 


298  CHARACTEEISTICS. 

gift.  I  glanced  from  it  with  a  full  heart  to  the  ro?es 
which  were  everywhere  in  bowls  and  tall  vases,  each, 
v//as  I  well  knew,  sedulously  arranged  as  the  woman's 
perfect  sense  of  harmony  in  color  dictated.  She  her- 
self was  dressed  with  unusual  splendor,  a  style  not 
after  her  ordinary  habit,  which  rather  inclined  to  a 
certain  extravagance  as  to  stuffs,  and  to  great  sim- 
plicity in  outline  and  forms.  Also,  she  wore  two  or 
three  jewels,  and  these  especially  flashed  a  warning  to 
me  as  to  there  being  some  surprise  in  store. 

As  I  entered,  the  house  rang  with  the  triumphant 
notes  of  a  love-song  of  Schumann. 

"Ah,  this  is  good  of  you,"  she  cried,  rising.  "And 
now  that  we  shall  have  a  nice  talk,  I  am  so  happy. 
Did  you  hear  how  my  piano  was  rejoicing  with  me  1" 

That  was  so  like  her,  and  I  said  as  much. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  as  I  looked  about  me ;  "we  are 
en  fete  to-night.  And  you  look  so  grave,  Owen."  Once 
in  a  great  while  she  used  my  first  name,  being,  despite 
our  extreme  and  long  intimacy,  little  apt  to  be  familiar 
in  certain  ways. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  am  as  you  say,  because  I  am 
troubled." 

As  I  spoke,  Vincent  entered.  "Ah,  North,"  he  cried, 
"how  welcome  you  are!"  and  cast  a  glance  of  faint 
amusement  over  the  room  and  his  wife's  costume. 
"I  have  been  away  since  morning,  or  I  should  have 
called.  I  met  Clayborne  on  the  steps." 

The  historian  carried  a  book  and  a  stiff  bouquet, 
which  he  deposited  on  the  table.  "Here,"  he  said, 
"are  the  essays,  pretty  obvious  stuff,  and  some 
flowers." 


CHARACTEEISTICS.  299 

Mrs.  Vincent  thanked  him  profusely.  "So  good  of 
you,"  she  said.  "  What  lovely  gardenias ! "  And  pres- 
ently she  set  one  in  her  belt,  saying,  "A  thousand 
thanks." 

"Why  not  one?"  laughed  Vincent.  "Why  is  that 
noun  only  plural  ?  It  ought  to  have  a  definite  value 
— one  thank.  Then  one  could  grade  one's  gratitude. 
Why  not  thirty-seven,  or  half  a  thank  on  occasions  ?" 

"  Quite  true,  quite  true,"  said  Clayborne.  "  The  nouns 
which  are  only  plural  must  be  rare.  Hum — "  and  he 
fell  into  a  reverie. 

"  How  absurd  you  are,  Fred,"  remarked  his  wife. 

"Well,  the  surroundings  account  for  that.  Do  you 
entertain  Haroun  al  Raschid  to-night,  Anne?" 

"I  entertain  myself,"  she  replied,  and  I  detected 
a  little  ocular  telegraphy  meant  for  Vincent  alone. 
Then  Clayborne  looked  up. 

"I  can  recall  no  other,"  he  said.  "And  in  French 
it  is  the  same,  and  in  Arabic.  I  must  look  it  up." 

"Mrs.  Leigh  told  me  to-day  that  you  had  been  to 
see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"Yes  j  we  are  old  acquaintances.  You  know  I  was 
Leigh's  executor.  That  girl  must  have  a  pretty  fort- 
une. There  has  been  a  long  minority.  Why  did  not 
you  marry  her  to  St.  Clair?" 

"I  did  my  best,"  returned  Mrs.  Vincent,  gaily.  "And 
there  is  the  mama.  Now  what  could  be  more  fitting 
for  you?" 

"  I !     What !     Me ! "  cried  Clayborne. 

"You  might  let  me  mention  it  to  the  widow." 

"Heavens ! "  he  exclaimed,  "I  believe  you  are  capa- 
ble of  that,  or — or  of  anything.  Let  us  go  and  look 


300  CHARACTERISTICS. 

at  the  dictionaries,  Vincent.  Mrs.  Leigh !  Ye  gods  of 
sorrow ! n 

"WeD,  think  it  over,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  delighted, 
as  the  historian  rose. 

"I  leave  you  to  your  patient,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  said  her 
husband.  "Is  the  case  a  bad  one?" 

"Prognosis  favorable,"  returned  the  wife,  laughing 
and  striking  a  few  gay  notes  on  the  piano.  "Diagno- 
sis certain.  Am  I  professionally  correct,  Dr.  North?" 

"I  never  interfere  with  other  folks's  cases,"  I  said, 
and  we  were  alone  again. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "what  is  it?  And  do  look 
happier.  Fred  says  I  am  crazy  to-day,  and  you  would 
not  let  me  tell  him.  But  what  is  wrong  ?  Surely — " 

"Oh,  everything  is  wrong,"  I  said.  "I  have  been  a 
fool,  and  I  have  helped  to  break  up  St.  Glair's  life,  and 
I  must  talk  about  it  to  some  one." 

"Of  course.  And  perhaps  I  can  help  you.  Only 
women  know  women." 

"It  is  not  the  woman,  it  is  the  man,  that  troubles 
me.  To  have  won  a  possible  happiness  at  the  cost  of 
a  friend,  I— I—" 

"But  perhaps  the  happiness  is  not  possible,"  she 
answered. 

"  That  were  no  better.  I  should  be  doubly  punished. 
Do  you  think  he  loved  her?" 

"I  do  not  know.  St.  Glair  is  seemingly  so  trans- 
parent, and  then  of  a  sudden  you  become  aware  that 
they  are  only  surface  reflections  that  reach  you.  There 
are  curious  depths  in  that  man's  nature.  Presently,  as 
Fred  says,  one  is  off  soundings.  I  understand  you,  I 
think,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you.  And  now  what  is  it  ?* 


CHAKACTERISTICS.  301 

"Read  this  letter,"  I  said. 

As  she  read  I  saw  a  faint  smile  of  pleased  surprise 
gather  upon  her  face.  She  re-read  it.  Then  slowly 
she  folded  it  up,  gave  it  back  to  me,  and  took  a  per- 
fect white  rosebud  from  the  jar  near  by,  and  put  it  on 
the  table  beside  me.  I  took  it  up  mechanically. 

"It  is  sweet,"  she  said,  "and  pure,  and  there  is  no 
canker  at  the  core.  The  rose  is  my  dear  Alice,  and 
you  may  take  her  if  you  can,  and  without  a  pang." 

I  was  accustomed  to  these  little  dramas,  but  this 
was  too  much  for  me. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"And  you  read  that  letter?" 

"I  did." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  never  was  more  fully  persuaded 
as  to  the  depth  of  folly,  of  incapacity,  one  may  find  in 
a  man." 

"You  are  enigmatical." 

"Am  I  indeed  ?    May  I  show  that  letter  to  Alice  r 

"What !     You  must  indeed  think  me  a  fool." 

"I  shall  not  answer  you  according  to  your  folly. 
And  people  say  you  are  a  student  of  character  and 
see  through  women !  It  is  past  belief ;  but  trust  a 
woman's  insight  for  once.  Ah,  certainly  I  am  at  home. 
Show  Miss  Leigh  up.  Here  comes  the  answer  to  my 
enigma." 

"  O  Mrs.  Vincent !     This  is  one  of  your  little—" 

"Hush !  Is  n't  this  joyous?"  And  she  struck  the 
keys  again  until  the  glad  notes  of  the  love-song  rang 
through  my  brain. 

"My  dear  Alice,  how  good  of  you  to  come!"  she 
cried.  "You  must  have  left  your  dinner-party  early. 


302  CHARACTERISTICS. 

Why,  it  is  only  ten.  Dr.  North  has  just  chanced  in, 
and  now  we  shall  have  a  quiet  talk.  You  have  not 
seen  Dr.  North  since  he  came  back.  My  room  is  en 
fete  to  welcome  him." 

"When  you  give  me  a  chance  I  shall  tell  him  how 
glad  all  his  friends  are  to  see  him  safe  back  again." 
Her  words  were  quite  formally  spoken. 

"It  was  worth  the  price,  such  as  it  was,"  I  said,  "to 
come  home  and  find  one  has  been  thought  about." 
Her  formality  affected  me,  and  I  struck  automatically 
the  same  note  in  reply. 

"And  now  tell  us  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"You  were  detained  by  Dr.  Roy's  illness?" 

"Yes;  I  had  to  be  nurse  and  physician." 

"Well,  I  want  to  hear  it  all — everything;  but  par- 
don me  a  moment,  and  talk  of  something  else.  I  must 
answer  Susan  Primrose  and  two  invitations  for  Fred." 

Upon  which  she  retired  to  a  desk  in  the  corner,  and 
we  fell  into  talk.  At  last  I  said,  "I  did  not  keep  my 
engagement.  To-day  month,  I  said  when  we  parted, 
and  now  it  is — " 

"Nearly  two,"  she  replied. 

"Oh,  quite  two,"  ejaculated  our  lady  manager  from 
the  corner,  rising  with  notes  in  her  hand.  "Excuse 
me,  I  so  want  to  hear  that  I  cannot  write ;  I  have 
made  two  horrid  blunders,  and  I  must  ask  Fred  if  he 
will  dine  with  the  Carltons.  I  shall  be  back  in  ten 
minutes,"  and  she  was  gone.  Then  I  began  to  under- 
stand the  drama,  and  was  instantly  on  guard.  At 
the  door  she  turned  back.  "Do  make  that  man  smile 
a  little,  Alice.  I  found  him  too  stupid  for  belief.  I 
turn  him  over  to  you.  Half  an  hour  have  I  spent  in 


CHARACTERISTICS.  303 

trying  to  make  him  understand  just  the  simplest  thing 
conceivable.  You  may  be  more  fortunate,  or — well, 
more  clever."  And  she  was  gone.  I  could  have 
pinched  her. 

"And  the  problem,  Dr.  North?"  said  Miss  Leigh. 

"It  was  purely  personal." 

"And  troublesome  ?  Mrs.  Vincent  has  left  me  heir 
to  the  talk  I  interrupted." 

"Yes,  very  troublesome." 

"I  am  sorry,  and  you  look  so  tired.  I  can  under- 
stand that  one  might  suffer  long  in  mind  and  body 
after  what  you  have  been  through.  Seriously,  I  do  not 
suppose  Anne  Vincent  would  have  spoken  so  lightly 
about  anything  that  I  might  not  talk  of.  You  once 
said  that  we  were  friends.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know 
by  this  time  that  I  take  life  gravely,  even  its  friend- 
ships. Can  I  help  you  as  a  friend?" 

"No,"  I  said,  grimly. 

"Then  pardon  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  indiscreet, 
or — or — " 

"You  are  not.  You  are  only  and  always  kind. 
But  Mrs.  Vincent  is  sometimes  carried  away  by  her 
moods." 

"And  you  think  we  should  always  be  responsible 
for  our  moods?  I  wish  I  were.  It  is  so  pleasant  to 
coddle  them,  and  I  do  try  not  to."  Then  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  crimson  and  gold  embroidery.  "Have  you 
heard  from  Mr.  St.  Clair?  He  is  very  apropos  of 
moods,  is  n't  he  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I  had  a  letter  to-day.     He  is  in  Paris." 

"  I  wish  I  had  his  sense  of  irresponsibility,"  she  re- 
turned. "  It  must  be  so  nice  to  have  a  heart  and  no 


304  CHARACTERISTICS. 

conscience.     You  must  miss  him,  or  you  will,  I  am 
sure.    Every  one  must." 

"Yes,  I  shall    I  am  fond  of  him." 

"Anne  says  he  will  return  in  the  autumn." 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Do  you  think  he  knows?" 

"Who  can  say?" 

"I  have  been  wanting  so  much  to  see  you  to  talk 
again  of  my  plans.  Do  you  not  think — " 

"I  don't  think,"  I  said.  "I  prefer  not  to  discuss 
the  matter.  Ask  some  one  else.  I  am  useless." 

"How  short  you  are  with  me.  Don't  you  know 
friends  are  for  use?" 

"I  suppose  so.    Mine  fail  me  at  times." 

"Now,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  must  turn  you  over  to  Anne  Vincent.  I 
don't  wonder  she  considers  you  difficult." 

"You  are  certainly  the  last  person  to  whom  I 
should  go."  The  situation  was  fast  getting  out  of 
my  control. 

"That  is  the  worst  of  friendships  between  men  and 
women.  Mama  says  they  are  impossible.  There  are 
so  many  limitations.  I  wish  some  one  would  write  a 
book  about  friendships.  There  are  so  many  about — 
about  other  things," 

"Your  mama  is  quite  right,"  I  said.  "Friends 
should  be  kept  in  their  right  places,  and  that  is  not 
always  easy.  They  take  liberties.  They — suppose  I 
were  to  ask  you  an  impertinent  question?" 

"I  don't  like  the  word — the  adjective." 

"Well,  un-pertinent." 


CHAEACTEEISTICS.  305 

"That  is  better.  I  should  try  to  answer  it."  But 
she  glanced  uneasily  at  the  door. 

"Do  you  care  for  Mr.  St.  Clair?" 

"Care?" 

"No.     Love  him?" 

"That  is  a  question  you  have  no  right  to  ask." 

"I  am  his  friend." 

"Then  his  friend  is  unwise,  and  permit  me  to 
say—" 

"Stop,"  I  said.  "Do  not  hurt  me  more  than  you 
must.  What  I  ask  profoundly  concerns  my  life, 
my—" 

"I  would  rather  you  said  no  more.  I  beg  of  you  to 
say  no  more." 

"I  cannot  pause  here.  I  must  speak.  If  you  love 
him,  I  have  been  false  to  him.  I  have  misunderstood. 
I  have  trodden  roughly  on  sacred  ground.  What  I 
thought  it  right  to  say  to  him  I  said  without  seeing 
where  I  stood." 

"But  now,"  she  said,  "I  must  understand  all  this. 
I  confess  I  do  not.  You  ask  me  if  I  love  Mr.  St.  Clair, 
your  friend." 

"That  was  what  I  said." 

"And  it  was  more,  so  much  more,  than  you  ought 
to  have  said.  But  now  I  will  answer  you.  I  do  not 
think  many  women  would — I  will.  I  do  not.  You 
have  gone  to  the  limit  of  friendship,  and  perhaps  be- 
yond. And  now  please  to  ask  Mrs.  Vincent  to  come ; 
I  must  go  away.  I  had  only  a  few  minutes." 

All  this  was  said  with  unusual  rapidity  of  speech, 
and  she  rose  as  she  spoke. 

"One  moment,"  I  said. 


306  CHARACTERISTICS. 

"Not  one,"  she  said  with  a  nervous  laugh,  taking  up 
the  bud  I  had  left  on  the  table  and  plucking  it  to 
pieces  leaf  by  leaf.  "Oh,  not  a  minute,"  she  repeated. 
"Please  ring." 

"Alice  Leigh,"  I  said,  and,  speaking,  caught  her 
wrist,  and  felt  as  I  did  so  the  slight  start  of  troubled 
maidenhood,  "let  the  poor  rose  alone.  Try  to  think 
it  is  my  life  you  are  busy  with.  What  will  you  do 
with  it — with  me?" 

As  I  spoke,  she  regarded  me  a  moment  with  large 
eyes,  and  then  sat  down  as  if  suddenly  weak,  her  fan 
falling  on  the  floor.  Some  strong  emotion  was  troub- 
ling the  pure  lines  of  her  face.  What  was  it  ?  Pity 
or  love  ?  Then,  looking  down,  she  said,  as  if  to  her- 
self, "And  is  this  the  end?" 

"Of  what?"  I  said,  faintly. 

"  Of  me,  of  my  life,  of  it.  Why  did  you  speak  ? 
Am  I  wrong  ?  Am  I  right  ?  Why  were  you  so  cruel 
as  to  speak — to  speak  now?  You  might  have  seen; 
you  might  have  known.  I  have  duties  before  me ;  I 
have  a  life.  I — I  am  not  fit  for — for  anything  else. 
I  mean  to  be.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  not  a  woman.  Then, 

en  I  should  know  how  to  do  what  is  best,  what  is 
right."  And  upon  this,  to  my  bewilderment,  she  burst 
into  tears  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"Alice,"  I  said,  "I  love  you." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  cried.  "  And  the  worst  of  it 
is  I — I — O  Owen  North,  be  very  good  to  me.  I 
meant  to  have  done  so  much." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"  Yes.    No ;  a  thousand  times  no." 

"  Oh,  here  is  Anne  Vincent." 


CHARACTERISTICS.  307 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  that  matron,  "  your  fan  is  in 
a  dozen  bits." 

"And  so  is  everything  else,  Anne  Vincent — every- 
thing. Let  me  go." 

And  she  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  to  tell  the 
end  of  this  story  to  my  friend  and  hers. 


THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


"WAP  «  5  1! 


JUN24 
WG22 


CtSI 
OL 


- 


MAR 

REC'D  ID- 

FEB21 


JAN. 


•I   M>R 

'  MAY  2  6 

Form  L-9-15m-2,'36 


1974 
'975 


24198Z 

RE 

984 


998 


DNTVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNiA 


